Reset
by paperstorm
Summary: Picks up where 'My Bloody Valentine' left off. The horseman Famine made Sam relapse into his demon blood habit, forcing Dean and Cas to lock him up in Bobby's panic room again. This is my take on the fallout. Wincest.
1. Prologue

**Ever rewatched an episode and then had a plot bunny imbed itself in your brain and refuse to shut up until you write it all down? I have! Here's what's been consuming me for the last couple of days.**

**(Dialogue from the prologue is from 'The Real Ghostbusters', belonging to Eric Kripke and Nancy Weiner.)**

* * *

_Prologue _

"I gotta hand it to you guys, you really saved our asses back there, so, uh … you know, thanks …" Dean pauses, the absurdity of the situation making itself painfully obvious. "Gosh, I don't even know your names."

"Oh, well I'm Barnes, this is Damien," the taller one offers with a smile. "What's yours?"

Dean hosts a quick debate in his head, but what the hell, right? It's not like he's ever going to see these idiots again. Might as well be honest for once. And besides, knowing his luck, these two will have heard of Jimmy Page or Robert Plant or any other 70s era musician he can think up on a moment's notice.

"Dean," he says. "The real Dean."

They stare at him for a few seconds, bemused, and then the short, fat one erupts into a belly laugh that shakes his stout frame like Jell-O during an earthquake.

"Yeah, right! Me too!"

"Get the hell outta' here, Dean!" the tall one chuckles, clearly under the impression he's made some sort of clever joke.

Dean doesn't really know what to do with that so he mumbles, "Well, anyway, uh, thanks. Really," and then turns to make his way back to Sam; to the only thing that makes any freakin' sense anymore after this crazy day.

"You're wrong, you know."

Dean stops short and turns back around; intrigue winning out over the dread of what he could possibly be wrong about _now_.

"Sorry?"

"About Supernatural," the one called Damien continues. "No offense, but I'm not sure you get what the story's about."

"Is that so?" Dean asks. _Amuse me, tubby. What is our story about, then? _

"Alright, look, in real life? He sells stereo equipment and I fix copiers." He points to his friend and then himself in turn. "_Our_ lives suck. But to be Sam and Dean … to wake up every morning and save the world? To have a brother who would die for you … well, who wouldn't want that?"

And Dean, well shit, Dean doesn't think he's ever thought about it like that; at least not in those simple terms. And that makes him mad, because their lives are anything _but_ simple, and who is this pathetic loser to tell Dean he's wrong about his own life? However, he grudgingly admits to himself, these two _did_ save his life, which doesn't mean much but they also saved Sam's, and that means everything. So Dean can force himself to be civil.

"Maybe you got a point. You know, you two don't make a bad team yourselves. How do you know each other, anyway?"

"Oh, well we met online. Supernatural chatroom."

Supernatural … there are Supernatural chatrooms. Dean shakes his head. Of course there are. Why _wouldn't_ there be people from all over the world discussing how weird his life is on the internet?

"Well, it must be nice to get out of your parents' basement; make some friends," Dean grinds out through a painful smile.

"We're more than friends," the shorter one says, linking their hands together. "We're partners."

"Oh …"

The taller one leans down to rest his head on his friend's – _boyfriend's_ shoulder and Dean has to grit his teeth to keep from laughing or gagging. These two oddballs are getting off on pretending to be him and Sam _and_ turning into lovers, and that's just about the weirdest thing Dean's ever been confronted with. Or the funniest, he's not sure which.

Not to mention the fact that, while he does spend a good portion of his day thinking about Sam naked, all long limbs and tanned skin and hard muscle, neither of the two men in front of him are someone you'd exactly want to picture without clothes, and the image of them together is now burned into his brain. Great. He really needs to get out of here, _now_.

"Well … howdy, partners."


	2. Chapter 1

Dean's heart lurches and his body twitches violently at a particularly loud bang from the floor below. He's squeezed his eyes shut tightly, so tightly that it's starting to give him a headache, but he doesn't care. He wishes he could rip off his ears; claw at his brain until everything went silent and fuzzy. Anything so that he never has to hear that awful noise ever again. He never thought he _would_ have to hear it again. He thought this chapter of their lives was over. He would give anything, _anything_ to make it stop. But he's been through this before, and there isn't a damn thing to do but wait. Wait until it runs its course … or until a heart stops beating. It's a whichever-comes-first situation, and at this point, Dean isn't sure who's heart it's gonna be judging by the way Bobby's white-knuckling the arms of his wheelchair. And as for Dean … well, if it were possible to die from heartbreak, Dean's pretty sure he'd already be dead. His back aches from sitting in the same position for too long – on a couch in Bobby's living room, bent over with his head in his hands – but it's nothing, nothing at all compared to the ache in his chest that doesn't have anything to do with a stiff muscle. It has everything to do with that horrible, gut wrenching noise that echoes up from the basement, ricocheting off the walls and burrowing into Dean's brain; suffocating him, drowning him.

They've been at this for hours. Five, to be exact. Five excruciating hours of digging his fingernails into his palms and watching the seconds tick by like dripping molasses and feeling each cell of his body die its own slow, painful death. Five hours of listening to the person he loves more than anything; more than Dad, more than hunting, more than sex and whiskey and his car and Led Fucking Zepplin … more than life itself … five hours of listening to his precious baby brother being tortured within an inch of his precious life. Dean's devoted nearly every waking minute of his last twenty-six years on this earth to keeping exactly this from happening – keeping Sammy away from pain and fear, keeping him _safe_. And now, for the second time, Dean has spent nearly three hundred snail-slow minutes of listening to Sam screaming in unimaginable agony; screaming 'no' and 'please' and, worst of all, 'Dean'. And Sam's every shout, every desperate plea for Dean to help him; to _save_ him, every single fucking one feels like a knife through Dean's heart, with a side of his intestines being ripped out through his mouth.

At first, Bobby and Cas kept reminding him that they just had to wait; "He just has to get it out of his system, Dean," they said with fake encouraging smiles plastered on their faces. Fucking liars. They had no idea. This could _kill_ Sam. It didn't last time, but that is in no way a guarantee, and there's no chance Dean would survive that. Not this time. But they'd insisted on remaining positive, at least at first. Then, when Dean ignored them, Bobby busied himself with cleaning his vast inventory of artillery, and Cas … Cas sat in the corner and stared at Dean through watery blue eyes as if he were feeling empathy for the first time. Then Dean turned to the seemingly never-ending supply of scotch in the cabinet above Bobby's fridge; counting on the warm, amber liquid to dull his senses, but with every sip Dean could only hear Sam that much clearer, like the alcohol was tuning him out to everything but his suffering brother. So Dean put the bottle back, barely restraining himself from smashing it. Everything else in his life had turned on him, why not liquor too? Seems only fair. Or it would, if fair had ever been a word in Dean's vocabulary.

Dean jumps again after a particularly frantic round of "Dean, please! Please help me, I'm so sorry, please!", and suddenly he feels about eight seconds away from a Niagara Falls of tears. He stands up abruptly and all but runs out of the room, ignoring calls from Bobby and in the space of a blink he's in front of the thick, iron door that dares to separate him from Sam. His fist is an inch away from the handle; demon blood be damned, Sam needed him!, when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, you can't."

_Fuck_.

"Cas, please, he – "

"He's fine," Cas says resolutely. "It's all in his mind, Dean, you know that. He's not really in danger. Just be patient, before too long it'll be out of his system and he'll be okay again."

"I can't just – Cas, he's – "

"He's your little brother, I _know_, Dean. And I know how much this hurts you, and I'm sorry. But the best thing we can do for him right now is leave him alone."

Dean's stomach suddenly feels like it's trying to crawl out through his throat. He _knows_ Cas is right, but he can't … this is Sam and he's scared and in pain and Dean _can't _just leave him in there to suffer all alone. _Take care of Sammy_. John's words reverberate in Dean's head; mocking him, kicking him when he's down with steel-toed boots.

And then out of nowhere there's a blinding flash of white hot light, and before he can take a breath he's outside. The cool air slaps his face and somehow manages to sedate him enough for the frenetic metronome of his heart to slow, if just a little bit. Opening his eyes, Dean realizes he's out back in Bobby's junkyard, surrounded by the shells of a hundred cars that seem to sneer at the shell of a person he's become in some kind of disgusting poetic satire.

Dean fucking hates poetry. And now Cas is staring at him again. Perfect.

"Dean …"

"I – I know, Cas," Dean interrupts. "Just don't, okay?"

"He's going to be alright, Dean. He didn't drink very much this time and it wasn't over an extended period like it was before. He just needs – "

"To get it out of his system, yeah, I know!" Dean snaps, leaning against a car and grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes, sort of wishing he could claw them out along with his ears because when this is over, Sam will be weak and broken and seeing his usually powerful brother like that is almost as hard to take as the screaming. Almost.

The car gives a little beneath him and Dean can feel Cas mirroring his stance beside him.

"You're angry with me," he deadpans.

"No, I'm not," Dean says quietly. "I just … Cas, I just really hate listening to him in there."

Cas is silent for a few minutes and Dean can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes but he holds them in.

"You know, angels aren't supposed to feel sympathy for humans," Cas begins after a moment. "Our father tells us we have to love them and so we do, but we don't really understand what that kind of love is. I never knew what it felt like to worry about someone before I met you. But you surprised me. You were so different from any human I'd ever met, and I started to care for you. And, well, we both know everything sort of went to hell after that."

Cas laughs quietly and Dean isn't sure how to react to that. He doesn't think he's ever heard Cas laugh before.

"Anyway, my point is that sometime in the last year I also started to care about Sam, flawed as he may be. I felt … well, I don't know exactly what I felt tonight. But I didn't like it, and Bobby informs me that what you're feeling is twenty times worse, so for that I am truly sorry, Dean."

Dean feels a gentle hand touch his shoulder and he looks up into cobalt blue eyes shining with sincerity. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or maybe throw up and then punch something. But any such thoughts are wiped from his brain like chalk off a blackboard when Bobby's voice rings out through the night.

"It's been awfully quiet down there for a while, Dean," he calls from the porch.

_Oh no_. Dean takes a few steps but before he can break into a full run he is blasted by another flash, and then half a second later he finds himself back in the basement, blinking the stars out of his eyes and glaring at Cas.

"Quit doing that!" he cries indignantly, and then rips the viewing latch open to scan the round room for Sam.

His brother is slumped on the floor against the far wall, his body pathetically crumpled and with a flash of terror, Dean realizes he can't tell from this vantage point whether or not Sam is breathing.

"Sam?" he calls sharply; no response. "_Shit_, he's not moving, Cas, help me get this stupid thing open!"

He fumbles with the vault lock for a few painful seconds and then the door is swinging open of its own accord, nearly taking him out in the process, but he doesn't have the time to bitch at that damn angel for not warning him. He takes a lightening-quick glance around the room, just to be sure, and then he's at Sam's side in no time flat, dropping to his knees and grabbing at Sam's chest.

… breathing … heartbeat … _thank god. _

Cas catches up with him then, and he's helping Dean hoist the dead weight of Sam's body to a sitting position so Dean can give him a gentle shake.

"Sam?" Dean asks cautiously and then Sam's breath is catching and his eyes are opening slowly, blinking groggily at the harsh fluorescents.

"Dean?" he croaks weakly.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me – "

"Open your eyes, Sam," Cas commands, grabbing Sam's chin before Dean even registers movement.

Sam gasps a little in surprise but Cas ignores it, pulling Sam's face toward his and using his fingers to pry open one of Sam's eyes. He stares at it intently, squinting and clenching his jaw, and Dean knows what he's looking for. Half of him wants to hit Cas for treating his brother so roughly when he's so weak, and the small noises of protest Sam are making don't help, but the other half is glad _someone_ is strong enough to take control of the situation because clearly _he_ isn't.

Cas closes his eyes for a moment and then squints into Sam's once more. Then he releases his grip on Sam's chin and nods at Dean.

"It's gone."

Dean breathes an enormous sigh of relief.

"C'mon, Sammy, let's get you up."

"No!" Cas says harshly.

Sam flinches at the outburst and Dean gets the sense that his brother still isn't quite sure where he is or what's going on.

"Why not?"

"Don't move him just yet." Cas continues to peer at Sam, calculating.

"Why?" Dean asks wearily. "Cas, you don't think …"

The angel shakes his head. "No, it's all gone, I'm sure of it. But just let him rest for a few minutes."

"Okay." Dean isn't sure what it is Cas is seeing when he looks at Sam, but he trusts that Cas knows what he's talking about.

"I'll go let Bobby know that Sam is alright, then I'll come back in a bit and we'll get him upstairs."

"Yeah, o – "

Dean looks up and suddenly he and Sam are alone.

" – kay," he finishes, chuckling. "I friggin' hate it when he does that."

He looks back to Sam and lunges forward as his brother starts to slip down the wall. He pulls Sam back up to sitting and then settles in beside him, smiling a little when Sam groans and his head falls heavily against Dean's shoulder.

"Sorry, big guy, you gotta stay awake or there's no way we'll get your Sasquatch body up the stairs," Dean murmurs affectionately.

He pulls his arm out from under Sam to wrap it around the trembling shoulders, giving his brother a light squeeze and then bending his arm at the elbow so his fingers can slip home into Sam's sweat-damp hair. Sam automatically snuggles in closer, probably not even aware that he's doing it. Dean's other hand goes up to push the chestnut strands out of tired eyes. Sam's breathing is coming in harsh, shallow bursts now and Dean almost starts shaking himself as his mind floods with images of blood dripping off Sam's strong chin; the way his nose always bleeds with the effort of twisting a demon right out of a human body … and how much he'd hated having to leave Sam trapped in that hotel room. How desperate he was to cut the damn ring off that bastard's finger and then get Sammy as far away from that town as he could, … and the painful clenching of his chest when he realized it hadn't worked; that he'd have to lock Sam up again – force him to go through agonizing, excruciating withdrawal. _Again_. Then there's the nearly invariable racket; the constant echoing in his ears of his baby brother pleading fanatically for his life, _begging_ Dean to help him. That was the worst of everything, and Dean doesn't think it will ever stop haunting him.

Dean turns his head toward Sam's, fervently nuzzling the soft hair with his nose and inhaling deeply; that warm, deliciously earthy Sam-smell filling his mouth and nostrils, and soothing him like nothing else can. It brings him back to the present where Sam is slumped against him; breathing like its causing him pain to do so; and where the hell is Cas? He'd said he would only be gone for a minute and all Dean wants is to get Sam into bed so he can tuck him in and spend the night next to him; watching over his little brother and keeping him safe like he's supposed to.

"Dean?" Sam wheezes, gasping roughly like he's been recently strangled.

"Yeah?" Dean answers warily.

"I … so … sorry …" Sam forces out in a frail, breathy tone.

"Shh, Sammy, it's alright."

Sam shakes his head slowly and barrels on trying to speak from exhausted lungs. "Tried, Dean … tried … not to … couldn't …"

"I know you did," Dean soothes, petting the side of Sam's face gently. "I know you couldn't control it. This one wasn't your fault, okay?"

"Not … mad at me?"

"No," Dean says thickly, "no I'm not. Just want you to be okay. That's all I've ever wanted."

He's been on the verge of tears for hours now, and he wishes Sam would just stop. He doesn't care anymore how they'll get him upstairs; he wishes Sam would just fall asleep or something because Dean really doesn't want to cry right now. But Sam, in true Sam fashion, refuses to stop until he's said every last thing on his mind.

"Still …" he coughs weakly "… love me?"

Well that does the trick. Damn it, why can't Sam ever quit _before_ Dean starts to cry? His traitorous eyes fill with tears and he squeezes them shut to keep the hot liquid from falling. Dean tightens his grip on Sam and presses a kiss into his temple.

"Always," he whispers, a few tears spilling down his cheeks but hopefully Sam is too out of it to notice. "So much, Sammy."

* * *

**To be continued, soon, I swear. I'm know I'm not usually good at quick updates, but this time I mean it!**


	3. Chapter 2

"Ready to try getting him upstairs?" comes a tentative voice from the door.

Dean looks up and his cheeks explode into a blush. His words were quiet enough that Cas probably didn't hear them, but he doesn't know how long Cas has been standing there and with his luck, the angel probably _did_ see him kissing Sam's forehead. But if he did he doesn't mention it; just smiles a little (and that makes _two_ things tonight that Dean's never seen Cas do before) and moves into the room to help Dean heave Sam to his feet. Sam seems to have almost passed out at this point, and even with Cas's angel super-strength, the two of them have a fair bit of trouble getting over two hundred pounds of pure muscle up two flights of stairs.

When Sam collapses heavily onto the bed he's out before he hits the pillow. Dean's back is now so stiff he probably won't be able to move tomorrow, but at least Bobby thought to get Sam in sweats and a t-shirt before they locked him up so now Dean isn't faced with the nearly impossible task of getting Sam out of jeans and however many layers of shirts the cold-blooded freak had layered on that morning.

Dean wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and glances over as Castiel. The angel is purposefully not meeting his eyes, and Dean's pretty sure now that he _did_ see that kiss and is trying not to say anything about it.

"Not so easy to think of him as my little brother once you've had to carry him, huh?" Dean jokes, trying to cover up the awkward moment.

Cas looks at him curiously. "I don't understand."

Dean can't help but laugh. "It's – never mind. Thanks for helping me with Sam, is what I meant."

Cas nods. "You're welcome. I'll, uh, leave you alone now."

Cas disappears into thin air before Dean can even take a breath, and then before he gets through his sigh of amusement, he chokes on it as Cas reappears again.

"_Shit_," Dean breathes. "You really gotta stop doing that."

"Sorry," Cas mumbles. "I was just wondering if it would be alright for me to come back in the morning. I'd like to make sure Sam's okay."

Dean can't help the smile that spreads onto his face. "Yeah, 'course. Or you can, you know, stay here tonight. If you want. There's another bedroom just down the – do angels even sleep?"

"Not much."

"Well, Bobby probably won't sleep much either. I bet he'd enjoy the company, especially if you let him get you drunk."

Cas nods solemnly, not catching Dean's humorous tone. He takes one last glance at Sam, and Dean swears he can see fondness in Cas's eyes before he vanishes and from the floor below Dean can hear Bobby curse in annoyance at being surprised.

"I'm really startin' to like that guy," Dean says to no one in particular.

His gaze slowly drifts to the sleeping form of his brother, sprawled messily in the middle of the double bed, and Dean takes a deep breath and gets to work. First he peels off Sam's slightly damp socks and replaces them with a dry pair from his duffle-bag, because for some reason if Sam has cold feet he'll wake up practically hypothermic. Dean shakes his head. How can such a big body be so cold all the time? Dean can't count how many times he's woken up in the middle of the night, so hot he can barely breathe, because Sam's pressed up against him as if they were trapped in a blizzard and the heat's gone out. And Dean will throw the blankets off himself so he doesn't freakin' _melt_, but Sam comes first so Dean never pushes his brother away, even when he's wanted to. Dean smiles to himself and wonders if Sam even knows that. He doubts it.

Then Dean goes about pulling the quilt out from under Sam so he can tuck him in. He briefly considers trying the tablecloth method – yanking the blanket so hard and fast that it will slip free without Sam even moving – but as appealing as that sounds, Dean figures it's not worth the possibility of Sam ending up on the floor. So he spends the next few minutes tugging the quilt down inch by inch, going as slowly and carefully as he can to avoid waking Sam. Eventually he pulls the last little bit free, and then drapes it back over Sam and pushes him gently over to one side of the bed so there'll be room for both of them. If he ever goes to sleep, that is. He's exhausted, but he can't deny how much he'd rather spend the night watching Sam breathe; being on guard duty against the nightmares Dean knows will come after what Sam's been through. And, Dean resentfully admits to himself, he'd really rather not have to deal with his own dreams tonight, which will definitely be plagued with images of finding Sam in that room, lifeless and bloody. Dean shudders at the very thought.

He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. _Sam's okay, he's right here_.

He has every intention of heading downstairs to say a quick goodnight to Bobby, maybe downing a couple to shots to get himself out of his head, and then dropping his worn out body into the bed beside Sam and sleeping until tomorrow, but Sam looks so … peaceful; so childlike in sleep that Dean suddenly can't help himself. He drops to his knees beside Sam's sleeping form and reaches out to smooth the hair away from Sam's eyes. Sam frowns and he makes a snuffling noise as he leans into the touch. It feels to Dean like a small victory – at least Sam still trusts him, still subconsciously looks to his big brother for comfort. But it still has Dean's eyes filling with tears again, and _damn it_ this day just won't be satisfied until it breaks him completely, will it?

"I'm so sorry, Sammy," Dean whispers, stroking Sam's frown-lines with his thumb until they smooth. "I'm sorry we had to do this to you again."

His fingers continue their gentle movement across Sam's face, and it occurs to him that Sam would never let Dean pet him like this if he were awake. He used to, when they were little. And even later than that; during the first few years they were together again after Stanford. Lately, though, Sam has just become a different person entirely. He's turned hard and resilient and ruthless in a way that would once upon a time have made Dean proud, but right now just has Dean pining for the sweet little brother he's lost.

"It's all my fault," he says feebly. "The second we found out what was happening in that town I should have realized it would get to you. I should've gotten you out of there before any of this happened."

Sam gives another helpless, sleepy sigh and Dean can feel his resolve crumbling. He presses a kiss to Sam's sweaty forehead, tasting salt and harsh motel soap and underneath the overwhelming flavor of _Sam_. It's everything that's ever felt like home to Dean, but if he sits here any longer he's gonna start crying again, and he's had damn near enough of that for the rest of his life, so Dean strokes Sam's cheek one more time and then hurries to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face before he starts feeling like throwing up again. Dean chances a glance at himself in the mirror, but that only makes him want to smash it, so he looks away quickly and drops heavily to the edge of the bathtub.

Despite what that jerk horseman said, Dean knows he isn't really dead inside. He may be broken down and quickly losing hope and so freaking _tired_, but he isn't dead. Not yet. Not as long as he still has Sam. He's pretty sure the horseman was _almost_ right; Dean's often amazed these days at how little he feels for … well … pretty much anything. A hunt goes badly and he doesn't care. A swarm of demons takes out an entire town, and where he once would have been outraged at the loss of so many good people, now he hardly even flinches. The world's going to end bloody anyway, right? Isn't that what everyone says? If it wasn't for Sam, Dean's pretty sure he would have given up by now, and that's so unlike him that it's terrifying. And when Dean is really honest with himself, he knows that's what scared him so much tonight – the knowledge that if Sam didn't make it, Dean would never find the strength to carry on. It's selfish and cowardly and he _knows_ it, but if Sam is the only thing keeping him going. He would be letting Bobby and Cas down in the worst way, but what the hell, it's not like he hasn't _already_ let them down; them and everyone else. He can't stop the apocalypse like Cas seems to think he can, he couldn't keep Bobby from being paralyzed, he couldn't save Pamela or Ellen or Jo … smart, funny, beautiful Jo, who he loved like a little sister, and it's all his fault that she had to die.

He's even let Sam down, in more ways than he ever thought he could. It's been a long time since he's been a big brother Sam could be proud of. Years, even.

Dean sits there for about twenty minutes, hating himself so much he almost wishes he could throw his worthless soul back into Hell himself. Because that's the horrible truth of it all; Dean may have died to save Sam, but that doesn't change the fact that he _deserved_ what he got in Hell. He's failed everyone he's ever loved, and a few billion people he's never even met. When his eyelids start to feel heavy he reluctantly lets himself off the hook for the night, but growls "I'm coming back for you tomorrow, asshole," at his reflection in the mirror before he slams the door shut.

Sam is still sleeping soundly when Dean re-enters their room, so he makes quick work of stripping down to his boxers and climbing gratefully into the warm bed beside his brother. But before he can get comfy enough to try and get some much needed sleep, Sam stirs.

Dean freezes, hoping Sam will just drift back to unconsciousness, but no such luck. Sam tosses his head towards Dean and draws in a shaky breath.

"Dean?"

"I'm here, Sam, go back to sleep," Dean whispers.

"Didn't think you'd be here …"

Sam still hasn't opened his eyes and Dean can't tell for sure if he's actually awake or not.

"Where else would I be?"

Sam mumbles something but the words are muffled against the pillow and Dean only catches the tail end, "- be angry … hate me …"

Dean feels his chest clench and his eyes burn like they've been splashed with acid and dear god, is this really what he's done? Has he really been so unforgiving and closed off that he's made his brother honestly believe he might _hate_ him?

"I don't, Sammy. I couldn't ever hate you." Dean's voice breaks somewhere in the middle and he can't even bring himself to care.

Sam is silent for a minute and Dean begins to think maybe he's fallen back asleep, but then he cracks one eye open a sliver and continues on his semi-conscious 'lets break Dean's heart' warpath.

"Don't call me Sammy," he mumbles. "Not your Sammy anymore … don't deserve …"

Dean holds his breath but Sam just curls his body further into Dean's and trails off with a quiet sigh. He seems to have really fallen back asleep this time, although Dean isn't positive how awake he was in the first place, but either way the damage is done. Sam thinks Dean hates him … he thinks he doesn't deserve to … Dean can't even finish that thought. He knew he'd been scaring Sam in the last few months with how lethargic he'd become, but he had no idea it was this bad. And worse, he has no idea how the hell he's ever going to fix it.

* * *

"Why, Sam?" she whispers brokenly. "How could you just leave me there when you _knew_ what was coming for me?"

"No … I didn't know, Jess, I swear I didn't."

"Yes you did!" she shrieks, her hair whipping around her head in a breeze Sam can't feel.

"It was just a dream!" he pleads desperately. "I didn't know what it meant, if I'd thought for a second you were in real danger I would never have left!"

"You and I both know that's not true, Sam," she chides calmly, _too_ calmly as crimson begins to soak through her white t-shirt. "But it wouldn't have mattered even if you _did_ know what the dreams meant, would it? I was doomed from the second we said hello, because there was never any doubt you'd choose him over me."

"Jess …"

"Admit it, Sam." Her beautiful face is twisted into a sardonic smile, lit up by the flames that suddenly begin to lick her feet. "You may have enjoyed pretending with me for a while, but the truth is you always belonged to him. I never stood a chance, not really. You were gone the second he showed up in our kitchen that night."

_Wake up!_ _This is over now, Cas said it was gone! Wake UP, Sam! _

Sam can feel one of his legs struggling to kick the other; to pull him back to consciousness where Jessica is just a beautiful memory and _Dean_ is what's real. His body is _trying_, but his mind laughs cruelly and drags him back down into sleep.

Her petite frame is fully engulfed in flames now, orange and red curling around her limbs and Sam can smell flesh burning and hair sizzling. His dreams had been plagued with those smells for so many months after she died, and even though it's been years since he's allowed himself to think about it, it all comes back as vivid and as horrible as if it happened yesterday.

"Maybe I wouldn't have had to die like this, Sam," she says quietly. "Maybe, if you'd ever really loved me."

"I did love you! Jess, I loved you so much!" Sam cries, feeling close to tears now.

"Not like him, though."

Jess smiles sadly and then all Sam can see is fire.


	4. Chapter 3

"How could you do this to us again? Didn't you learn anything after Jessica? Remember what happened when we kept that puppy under the deck and didn't tell Dean? It died! When you keep secrets, bad things happen! They always do! Why do you keep ruining our life?"

"Why would you ever listen to me? I'm a demon, Sam, how stupid do you have to be? Were you really that helpless without big brother around to tell you what to do? Are you really that pathetic? Dean never wanted to trust me, and now you know how right he was, don't you? And the things you and I did together! Oh, you did things with me that would make Dean hate you forever, didn't you? And you'd deserve it."

"You were supposed to help me, Sam. I thought that was your job, saving people from monsters. Well, there was a monster inside of me, but you didn't save me! You told me you could, but you didn't! And then you just screwed me and got rid of me like I was nothing. Do you know what it feels like when someone puts a bullet in your brain? I do."

"You were never good enough, son, you know that, don't you? Dean was perfect, but you … you were a termite I had to drag around with me because Dean wouldn't let you go. That was his only weakness, Sammy. You. And it's going to get him killed one day. Then everything your mother and I sacrificed will be for nothing."

Sam jolts awake with an exaggerated gasp that makes his lungs feel like they're in a vacuum. For a few terrified seconds, he blinks frantically into obscurity and has no idea where he is. It's more than just dark in the room, it's that kind of thick velvety blackness that makes him feel like there isn't enough air. Ever since he was eight years old and found out about what's really 'out there' (as Dean puts it), Sam's always been uncomfortable when it's too dark. With all the moving around he's done in his life, he should be used to waking up in unfamiliar places. But he isn't used to it, at all. He hates not knowing where he is, and worse; not knowing where Dean is. But after a moment, his eyes begin to adjust and he remembers – Bobby's. The demon blood. And Dean is right where he's supposed to be, in bed beside him.

Sam leans in a little closer to listen to Dean breathing, the steady rhythm of it stilling the hysterical beating of his heart. Right then, Sam _feels_ about eight years old again. And he wants so badly to snuggle into Dean's body and let his big brother's strong arms wrap him up in a cocoon of warmth and safety. But he doesn't. _You're twenty-six, not eight_, he reminds himself harshly. And besides, he has a fuzzy but strong feeling that Dean wouldn't let him cuddle right now. Dean was … he was really upset last night. Sam rubs his eyes as he attempts to remember why. It doesn't take long. The god damn demon blood. _You idiot_, he adds as an afterthought. Of course Dean was upset. Shit, Sam's lucky Dean is even still _here_.

But why is Dean here? By any logic, he should be sleeping in the other guest bedroom, or maybe on the couch downstairs. He should be as far away from Sam as he can get. Sam wouldn't have even been surprised if Dean had gone as far as to leave him here and get a room somewhere in town. But he didn't, and suddenly Sam realizes exactly what Dean's doing here. He wouldn't want Sam to wake up alone. So even though it probably sickens him to be so close to the little brother who's let him down in a million ways, once again Dean is sacrificing his own needs for Sam's. Really, it's a pretty amazing gesture and it should make Sam feel grateful, but it doesn't. It makes him feel like crap. It makes him feel sick.

It makes him wish the withdrawal had finished him off this time.

Sam gets gingerly out of the bed, his abused muscles more stiff than he'd yet realized, and makes his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He isn't sure what time it is, but he can see weak sunlight filtering through the windows and he hears Bobby moving around downstairs, so it must be early morning. He squints as he flicks on the bright lights above the mirror, and then cringes when he catches a glimpse of himself. He looks exhausted, even though he just slept all night. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is a mess, although the latter isn't necessarily surprising. His hair is always a mess in the morning; sleep-matted and a little oily. Dean teases him about it, but can never seem to keep his fingers away so Sam knows that in truth, Dean loves it.

Dean …

_Shit._ Sam sinks down to sit on the edge of the tub and drops his face into his hands. Dean is going to be so mad at him when he wakes up. Sam knows it's coming, but that won't make it suck any less. The stupidly ironic thing about this whole situation is that Dean was the reason Sam had started sucking back demon blood in the first place. It wasn't Dean's _fault_, of course, Sam would never be so horrible as to blame his brother for Sam's own unforgivable mistakes. But he also couldn't deny that Dean was a big part of it. As much as Sam liked to pretend that he was some big, strong, fearless hunter; he wasn't. On the inside, a lot of the time Sam was still a scared, helpless little kid who never felt safe unless his big brother was by his side. Sam didn't know _how _to feel safe without Dean. He didn't even know how to go on _living_ without the comfort and security that had always been there. Sure, Sam had been away from Dean while he was at school, but Dean had always been just a phone-call away if Sam had ever needed him. It wasn't the same as Dean being _dead_. It wasn't the same as Sam being truly alone. So when Dean had gone to Hell, Sam had fallen apart. And when Ruby had offered him a solution – a chance to become tough enough and strong enough to live without Dean – Sam hadn't thought twice.

And the worst part is that this time, he really did try to stay away. Pretty early on in the case he'd started feeling the familiar pangs of needing another hit, and it would have been all too easy to just take the knife to the nearest demon and give his body what it so desperately craved. But he _didn't_. He didn't because he couldn't disappoint Dean, not again. He'd let Dean lock him up in that motel room; he'd let Dean take on Famine by himself. Because he felt lower than dirt about how much this had all wounded his brother the first time. Sam didn't want to be like some kind of low-life drug addict who constantly hurt the people around him. He'd done enough of that for one lifetime.

But then those idiots came right for him. He'd begged them to leave him alone, but then he couldn't resist anymore. Not when they were right there, offering themselves to him as if on the proverbial silver platter. Offering him an excuse to feel powerful again.

Offering him an excuse to fail the person he loves. Again.

So, like the perpetual screw-up he was, Sam had given in. It didn't matter that he felt like he couldn't control it. It didn't matter that technically, _technically_, it wasn't his fault this time. Dean wouldn't be interested in excuses. And honestly, Sam is tired of them himself. He's tired of trying so hard to make things right, when in reality things can never be right again.

Sam pushes himself up off the tub and stares with revulsion at his reflection in the mirror once more. Maybe he should just leave; just take one of Bobby's spare cars and get himself as far away from Dean as he can. It might actually kill him to be parted from his brother this time, but Sam isn't sure he can take seeing the disappointment in Dean's eyes again. He loves … shit, he loves Dean so fucking much. How could he live the rest of his life without ever feeling Dean's lips on him again? Without ever feeling as safe and loved as he does when Dean holds him in the afterglow? Without the indescribable feeling of Dean inside him, filling him up and making him whole in a way that absolutely nothing else can?

Sam's torso twitches involuntarily, and suddenly he's in an inexplicable amount of pain. He carefully lifts up his shirt to see what the hell is going on, and is greeted by the sight of nearly his entire chest turned purple and blue. _Crap_, when did that happen? He definitely remembers the feeling of unthinkable agony as a plethora of demons and monsters from his past cut him to ribbon, but he also remembers from last time that in the end it was all in his head. But Sam was pretty sure he recalls something Dean said last time … that damn demon blood must've been throwing him around again, and he didn't even realize.

Suddenly the bruises on his sallow skin and the dark shadows in his eyes draw him back to the iron room, where everything he's ever feared comes to life and relishes in torturing him until he begs for death.

"_You are disgusting. Did you even think about how much this would hurt your father and I?"_

"_I – I'm sorry," Sam mumbles feebly. _

"_You're sorry?" She laughs maliciously. "You think that being _sorry_ can make up for the fact that you are sleeping with your brother?" _

_Sam can feel hot tears streaming down his cheeks, but makes no effort to stop them. He deserves this – deserves the pain. _

"_Mom, I … I love him."_

"_Don't you dare say that to me!" _

_Now her curly blond hair is tossing over her shoulders and Sam is reminded horribly of Jessica. It's an insult to both their memories, what he and Dean do together in the dark. But Sam has never been able to help it. He's been in love with Dean since he was thirteen, maybe even longer. He could date all he wanted in high school, he could run all the way to California, but he could never hide from those stubborn feelings. And honestly, he never wanted to. _

"_I hated growing up in this life, Sam!" she snaps. "It was horrible; always being scared, never knowing if today would be your last day. The thing I wanted most for my children was a life away from hunting! Because this is what hunting does to people! It confuses them; it makes them feel things that otherwise they never would!"_

"_Then you should understand!" Sam cries desperately. "You died when I was only six months old! Hunting is the only life I ever knew! And Dean was all I had!"_

"_So then you should trust him to be your big brother! To teach you and protect you! Not to sodomize you! Sam, you must know how wrong that is!"_

"_It doesn't feel wrong!" Sam insists. "It feels like, Mom it feels like we're exactly how we're supposed to be."_

"_Don't! I used to tell you both that angels were watching over you! What on earth do you imagine heaven would think of you now?"_

"_Mom," Sam pleads._

_"Dean's already been to Hell once for you, are you really so selfish that you're willing to send him there again?"_

"NO!" Sam shouts, coming back to himself with a harsh jerk.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, now wide-eyed and scared.

"No," he whispers brokenly.

But it's no use. It doesn't matter how much he loves Dean. This time, nothing matters. Nothing but the horrible mistakes he's made. Maybe nothing else ever will.


	5. Chapter 4

**Everyone who enjoys this chapter should send a big thanks to Twinchester Angel for making me get my ass in gear and finally writing it! I had been putting it off for way too long!  
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When Dean blinks himself slowly to consciousness, he realizes pretty quickly that he's alone. If this were any other morning, he'd spend the next few minutes just floating in that not-quite-awake place where he's warm and comfy. Where monsters don't exist and demons stay in Hell where they belong and the apocalypse is just a story in an old book. Where nothing exists but him and Sam, breathing together in a sea of blankets and pillows and pretending, just for a minute, that it could always be like this.

But this isn't any other morning, it's a morning after one of the worst nights of Dean's life, and even though that list is long it doesn't make things any easier. So, even though his body is still clinging to sleep, his mind catches up all too quickly and Dean grunts in annoyance and forces himself to sit up. The lamp on the bedside table is far too bright when Dean flicks it on, and he can't resist throwing a glare at it before he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. If Sam were here, he'd make some crack about Dean trying to scowl things to death, and the thought alone makes Dean roll his eyes as if Sam had actually said it.

He pushes the quilt back and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, the cool wooden floor against his bare feet pulling his foggy brain a little closer to its normal sharp alertness. Dean knows he should be already out the door and on his way to locating Sam, because for all he knows Sam is puking his guts out in the bathroom or has fainted and fallen down the stairs or something. They didn't have to deal with this part last time – when they were zapped away from that church, something wiped Sam clean so it was as if the whole demon blood thing had never even happened, physically at least. But this time there weren't any magic fixes so Dean really has no idea what to expect. So even though he should be making sure his little brother is okay right now, Dean takes a minute to stretch out his stiff arms and back and try to envision what the hell he's going to say to Sam to even begin to make things right again.

As if on cue, the oak door creaks open and Sam is standing there, looking battered and miserable but undeniably _alive_, and Dean lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Hey," Sam mutters, not meeting Dean's gaze.

"Hey Sammy," Dean says quietly, his eyes scanning his brother's body for any signs of injury or illness but Sam seems to be alright. "How you feeling?"

Sam shrugs. "Okay. A little shaky, but okay."

Dean throws Sam a look that Sam must've somehow _felt_ because he still hasn't looked up when he starts speaking again.

"Fine, I feel like I got hit by a train. But I'm alright, Dean, really."

Dean nods and stands slowly. "That's … good, I guess."

"Thanks for … you know …" Sam gestures aimlessly toward the bed. "It's lame, but I think I would've been freaked out if you weren't there when I woke up."

Dean lets himself smile a little and, trying to force the idea through his skull that sometimes emotional moments are okay, he moves toward Sam and pulls him into a hug.

"I'm really happy you're safe," Dean says into Sam's shoulder. He almost rolls his eyes at how idiotic he must sound, but instead busies himself with taking a deep lungful of the Sam smell currently invading his senses.

Sam is stiff for a moment at first, but then he slides his arms around Dean's waist and squeezes tightly.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers brokenly.

"I know. It's okay," Dean sighs, silently willing Sam to let it go, at least for now. At least until they're alone.

"It isn't okay, at all," Sam counters, and Dean feels Sam's shaky breath, warm and humid on his neck.

He pulls back a little to stare into watery blue-green eyes, and alright fine, looks like they're gonna have to do this now.

"Sam, it's – "

"I messed up, I know I did, and I'm sorry, and – just – look, I understand if you never wanna speak to me again but just please don't leave, Dean," Sam blurts out in a rush of air.

Dean blinks in surprise as he attempts to decipher the waterfall of words that cascade down on him. Damn it, Sam thinks he's going to leave?

"Sam, I'm not going anywhere, what are you talking about?"

But Sam barrels on as if Dean hadn't spoken. "I know how much this hurt you last time, I'm so sorry I did this to you again, and – god, I started the freaking _apocalypse_ because of this last time, and there isn't anything I could ever say to make that okay, to make _any_ of this okay – "

"Sam!" Dean grabs Sam's face and forces the worried, frightened eyes to meet his own. "Stop it! I meant what I said last night, I'm not mad at you. So just stop, okay?"

Sam's expression loses its frantic edge but then his eyebrows tilt up in the middle and he goes back to looking just plain miserable.

"I tried so hard to fight it, Dean."

Dean releases his death grip on Sam's cheeks and slides his arms back around Sam's neck, fingers tangling in soft hair and stroking soothingly.

"I know you did," Dean says gently.

"I didn't want to do it again. I mean I did, but – my body wanted to, but I tried …" Sam takes a deep breath and then closes his eyes like it's too painful to talk and look at Dean at the same time. "I didn't wanna let you down again."

"You didn't," Dean insists. "Remember that first couple? They literally _ate_ each other to death. That's not something you choose to do. They were infected by famine, just like you, and you couldn't control it. I know you tried to fight it. Hell, Sam, you let me handcuff you to a sink and push a giant wardrobe in front of the door, _that's_ how hard you tried!"

Sam opens his eyes and nods, a few tears spilling over. "I really did."

"I know, baby," Dean repeats, pulling Sam back down into his arms and brushing his lips across the soft skin on Sam's neck. He doesn't use that endearment very often, it's been months since he has, but right now it seems like Sam needs it. Needs to know that Dean still loves him.

"You don't need to be worried that I'm mad or that you let me down, because I'm not and you didn't, I swear. And I'm not leaving, not ever, so put that right out of your mind."

"You _should_ be mad at me," Sam mumbles against Dean's shoulder, and Dean can hear the self-loathing in Sam's shaky voice – a feeling Dean knows all too well.

Sam's arms make their way back around Dean's body, and he clings to Dean like a lifeline. Dean can feel Sam trying to keep it together, but then feels when the dam breaks and the chest pressed against his own starts shaking in silent sobs.

"Shh," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. "Its okay, Sammy. Everything's gonna be okay, I promise."

"How?" Sam chokes out, and _god_ Dean wishes he had an answer for that.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "But we'll figure it out, you and me. We always do."

Every strangled sob cuts deeper into Dean's chest until he's fighting to keep his own eyes dry and his own breathing steady. He has to stay strong right now, damnit, for Sam. Because as crappy as Dean feels about this whole situation, Sam undoubtedly feels about a million times worse after what he went through last night, whatever that may be. That almost makes things suck even more for Dean; that he's attempting to comfort his little brother with absolutely no idea what he's gone through. They didn't talk about it last time – Sam didn't seem to want to and so Dean didn't push. Dean's almost entirely sure he'd rather not know at all, but thinks that maybe this time it's important he asks anyway.

But later, not while Sam's still squeezing the life out of him and crying into his shoulder. Dean can feel wetness seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt, warm at first and then cooling around the edges as fresh tears fall.

"I got you, Sammy." Dean kisses Sam's neck a couple more times, _damn_ he hates it when Sam cries.

Even as he rubs Sam's back, he can't help feeling a little helpless. When Sam was a kid, Dean knew exactly what to do when he was upset. But now … this big man in his arms has almost become a stranger to him.

"Fuck," Sam mutters suddenly, pulling away from Dean and wiping angrily at the wetness on his face. "I promised myself I wasn't gonna do this."

"It's okay. It's just me," Dean offers.

Sam only shrugs halfheartedly and moves a few steps away and Dean really wishes that didn't sting so much. Yeah, they both hate to cry, but really, the one person in the world Sam shouldn't be afraid to cry in front of is Dean.

This feels uncannily like further evidence that Dean really has lost that sweet, sensitive little brother he misses so much.

"Look," Dean begins slowly, if only to change the subject in his own mind, "while we're already at this, if anyone should be apologizing here, it's me."

Sam whips around quickly. "_What_? Why?"

"Because, I – " Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "Shit, Sam, because I left you there with no way to defend yourself! We _knew_ there were demons in town, and I just tied you up and left you there like an offering or something!"

"Because I asked you to!" Sam cries indignantly. "Dean, it never occurred to me that they would come looking for me either! That isn't your fault!"

Dean doesn't believe that for a second, and it must show on his face because Sam's expression turns dark and angry.

"Alright, fine, let me have it."

"Have what?"

"Whatever insane reason you've come up with in that self-deprecating head of yours to explain why _my _latest screw-up is all _your_ fault."

"I didn't say it was all my fault!" Dean snaps back, and shit, how did they go from hugging to yelling so damn fast? "I just – Sam, I should have realized it was going to happen!"

"Oh, so what, you're some kind of psychic now?" Sam spits sarcastically. "Now it isn't enough to save people from monsters, but you're actually expecting yourself to start seeing cases before they happen?"

"No, would you just shut up and listen to me?" Dean shouts. "I didn't need to be a psychic, all the pieces were right there in the open! I just didn't put it together in time!"

Sam stares, his cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means we were fighting something that kills people by making them give in to their strongest temptations," Dean explains, straining to keep his voice steady. He really, _really_ doesn't want to fight right now. "People all over that town were eating each other alive and drinking themselves to death and I should have realized that famine would get to you too."

Sam looks lost for words, instead opting to growl in frustration and turn away from Dean, running a hand through his hair.

"I know you still feel it every time we fight a demon," Dean continues, quieter now but still with as much intensity. "I can see it on your face; how much you want it and how much you have to fight yourself to stay away from it. And if I had stopped to think for a minute instead of diving in head-first, I would have realized what would happen if famine got to you. I would have gotten you out of there before any of this happened."

"How many freaking times to we have to have this fight?" Sam begins, voice now shaking with barely controlled fury and still not facing his brother, "I'm not a little kid anymore. It is not up to you to keep helpless little Sammy safe from every goddamn thing we come across!"

"Like hell it isn't!"

"Dean, you promised me you were going to stop doing this, remember?" Sam cries, clearly affronted. "Just a few months ago, you told me you realized what you were doing to me by keeping me on such a tight leash, you said you were going to try to start treating me like your _partner_ instead of some _kid_ you have to drag around and look after!"

"Yeah, I did, and I've been trying, Sam, I really have!" Dean yells back, wondering how long it'll be before Bobby starts hollering at them to shut up. "But I've been looking out for you since the day you were _born_, you can't just ask me to stop altogether after twenty-six years! That's asking me to stop being who I am! How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

The snappy retort Dean is expecting doesn't come. Sam is surprisingly quiet for a few seconds, and then turns back around; all traces of anger gone from his sharp features. Now he just looks … sad.

"You're right," he says quietly, almost reluctantly. "I'm sorry. I just … I just really freakin' hate how messed up everything is."

Dean presses his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, trying to stave off a headache he can already feel coming. _God-fucking-damnit_, he really didn't want this to happen today. He just wanted to comfort Sam and have Sam _let him_ for a change. He just wanted Sam to let him be a big brother again.

"I hate it too."

"What went down yesterday wasn't your fault," Sam says emphatically, as if he were trying to drill his words right into Dean's head. "You weren't the only one there. I never thought about what would happen if famine got to me either, and neither did Cas, even after it had already gotten to _him_. _We_ didn't think, all three of us. Not just you."

This time, Dean's the one shrugging half-heartedly and dropping his gaze to the floor. He knows what Sam said is true, but somehow it doesn't make him feel any better. He's supposed to be the one to protect Sam, not the other way around. But then Sam's across the room and right in front of him before Dean's brain even registers movement, and he's being pulled into the warmth of Sam's arms, and now it's his turn to bury his face into Sam's neck.

"This isn't your fault even a little bit," Sam says between pressing light kisses into Dean's temple.

Dean takes a few deep breaths before he speaks, a little worried that he's about to dissolve into tears at any minute.

"Can we just – " he starts, then taking one more calming breath and pulling back enough to look at Sam. "Seems like there's some shit we need to talk about. And not just about this. Feels like things have been off with us for a really long time, you know?"

Sam nods, puppy-dog eyes retuning in full HD-Technicolor. "Yeah, I know."

"But can we do that later?" Dean asks, walls fully crumbled now and willing to beg for it if that's what it takes. "I'm still freaking out a bit about last night, and you're still recovering, and I don't want us to have our big heart-to-heart in Bobby's guest bedroom. We need to get a room in town somewhere and tear each other new ones, but for now, can we please go back to bed for a while and just … be together? Just for a little bit?"

Sam nods and strokes his thumb a few times against Dean's cheek. "Yeah. That sounds really good, actually."

He leans down and kisses Dean softly, and Dean melts right into it like his spine just got liquefied and Sam's the only thing keeping him level. Then Sam takes Dean's hand and gently pulls him back to the bed, settling them both into it and curling his limbs around Dean. Sam even lets Dean wrap his arms around him protectively, and _yeah_, this is exactly what Dean's been wanting since he woke up this morning – to hold Sam tightly and feel a twin heartbeat against his own and to know with absolute certainty that Sam really is alive and that things really will be okay. Eventually. It's probably gonna take a hell of a lot of talking and crying and yelling and that's _so_ not going to be fun, but still, for the first time in a long time Dean's chest swells with something that feels a lot like _hope_.

Dean nuzzles into Sam's hair and inhales deeply. God, he loves that pure, earthy Sam smell. Sweet and a little yeasty, like baking bread mixed with salty sea air. During that first hunt together after he'd pulled Sam away from Stanford, Sam smelled like some kind of cologne Jessica had obviously given him and Dean remembers how artificial and _wrong_ it felt. Sam should always just smell like Sam.

"What are you doing?" Sam laughs quietly, rumbling in his chest and reverberating though Dean's.

"Smelling you."

"Why? I smell like sweat."

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighs. "I love that smell. It's what you smell like after a hunt, or after sex."

Sam laughs again. "I guess that sort of makes sense. Freak."

Dean just smiles and hugs his baby brother a little tighter.

"Love you," Sam whispers, a ghost of warm breath against Dean's collarbone.

"Me too, Sammy," he whispers back.

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**PS - Twinchester, that ^ little bit of shmoopyness was just for you :)**


	6. Chapter 5

**The 'l' key and the period key have both stopped working on my poor, ancient laptop, so I had to cut&paste them all in. I combed it as carefully as I could, but I apologize if there's any missing!**

**Also, god damn this story is kicking my ass. Curse my love of angst and sad Sam eyes! **

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"Sam! Dean! Get down here, I'm makin' breakfast!"

Dean hadn't realized he'd fallen back asleep until Bobby's gruff voice echoed up from the floor below and jolted him back to consciousness. He's way too hot and he feels wet heat on his neck and is confused for half a second before the sleep-fog clears just enough from his mind for him to realize that there's a very warm, very heavy Sam almost completely on top of him. No wonder his lungs feel like they can't get enough air. Actually, the way Sam's got his face pressed into Dean's shoulder, he's not sure how Sam's managing to breathe either. Dean pulls his arms out from where they're pinned under Sam's, and wraps them around his giant, drooling puppy of a brother – one around his back and one in his hair. It's a little oily and sweat-matted, and smells like sleep and cotton sheets, and it makes Dean's mouth water. He kind of wants to lick it, or maybe actually take a strand into his mouth and suck on it, but he doesn't because that would be taking his maybe-sort-of kink for Sam's hair to a whole new (and highly disturbing) level. He does bury his nose in it and breathe deeply (or, as deeply as he can with the weight crushing his chest), because c'mon, it smells incredible and Dean's only human. And then there's the spot right at the base of Sam's neck, usually hidden underneath the longer curtain of hair, where there's all these kitten-soft curls that feel so incredible between his fingers. It's kind of wonderfully intimate, even after everything else that they do to each other, that he's the only person in the world who knows about that spot. Maybe it's stupid, but he's always loved feeling like he owns a little piece of Sam that no one else gets.

"Wake up, Sammy," he whispers into the skin behind Sam's ear.

"Mm?" Sam stirs a little but doesn't move, so to keep him from falling too far back into sleep Dean scratches his fingernails into Sam's scalp like he were scratching behind a cat's ears. It isn't just him who likes doing that – Sam secretly loves the _very_ small obsession Dean will admit to having for his hair, and less than a minute later Sam is practically purring and licking at Dean's neck like he really is a freakin' cat.

"Feels good," he mumbles sleepily, clearly still not quite conscious as his hips roll down into Dean's.

_Damn_ that feels fantastic, but they're in Bobby's guest bedroom and this can abso-fucking-lutely not start heading in that direction, as much as Dean really, really wants it to.

"You gotta get off me," he says, very reluctantly shifting under Sam so the heat from Sam's crotch isn't pressed into his anymore. "Can't breathe, Sasquatch."

Sam laughs a little, low and deep and right in Dean's ear. "Don't care, 'm comfy."

Dean can't help but smile. "C'mon, Sammy, time to get up." He pushes at Sam's ribs to get the body off of his, but then Sam tenses and hisses in pain and Dean snaps into his protective mode so fast it almost gives him whiplash.

"What?" he cries, trying to wriggle out from under Sam so he can see his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam wheezes, rolling off of Dean. "Just a little stiff from yesterday."

"Bullshit," Dean snaps. He pushes himself onto one elbow and grabs the hem of the old, grayish t-shirt Sam always sleeps in, yanking it up to Sam's armpits. Then he stops breathing. Sam's chest is peppered in bruises, purple and black and a sickly grayish-green around the edges. There's even a few splotchy red patches that look like broken blood vessels. Dean's own torso throbs, symbiotically feeling Sam's pain like he always does.

"_Shit_, Sam … " Dean breathes, his heart twisting up into his throat.

"It's – "

"It's not nothing!" Dean cries. "You're, oh god, Sam, what – " But then it hits him, like a wrecking ball straight to the gut and suddenly there isn't nearly enough air in the room. "It – it was throwing you around again?"

"I'm not sure, I guess so," Sam mumbles, trying to push his shirt back down and escape the scrutiny of Dean's gaze.

"Fuck, I should've – fuck!" Dean half-yells, shoving his body up off the bed and pacing angrily across the room. "Last time I tied you down, I should've tied you down! I can't believe I forgot!"

"Dean, you weren't exactly in the best frame of mind last night," Sam interjects, standing up gingerly. "It's okay, it doesn't hurt if I don't touch it."

"It's not okay!" Dean shouts, anger at himself turning unfairly into anger at Sam. "You never said anything! Why didn't you – " the words 'call for me' get caught at the back of his throat at the exact moment he realizes that Sam did. God damn it, he _did_. Sam yelled for him over and over again and Dean ignored it. How could he do that? His little brother needed his help, how could he just ignore it?

"Dean … " Sam begins in that kind, gentle way of his; his head tilted a bit to the side and his expression so full of sorrow and sympathy he could probably make a damn Nazi cry, but Dean can so not handle the sad Sam eyes right now.

"No! Fuck!" Dean all but bellows at pretty damn near the top of his lungs.

"Dean!" Bobby's rough voice rings out sharply from downstairs. "Would you quit yelling and get yer sorry ass down here!"

"I – " Dean starts to yell back, but then thinks the better of it. He throws a authoritative 'don't move' expression at Sam and then steps into the hall. He leans down, resting his elbows on the banister so he can see Bobby at the bottom of the stairs.

"We'll be right there, okay? Just give us a minute." It comes out more annoyed-sounding then he meant it to.

The older man points a warning finger at Dean. "You'd better not be givin' him hell for what happened yesterday. The kid's been through enough, he doesn't need you on his case too."

Dean holds his hands up in something like surrender. "I'm not, I swear," he promises, his tone more civilized now. "Just, please. One minute."

Bobby peers up at him, looking concerned and a little suspicious, but then waves his hand as if to say 'yeah, aright' and wheels himself back towards the kitchen. Dean sighs and moves back into the room to find Sam sitting back on the bed, hands in his lap and looking exhausted and dejected.

"Sam," he mutters. _Shit_, he hadn't meant to lose it like that, but sometimes he's such a ticking time bomb lately that he can't help it. He sinks onto the mattress beside his brother and puts an arm gently around his shoulders, pulling Sam's body toward his so he can rest his forehead against Sam's temple. "I'm really sorry, I should've remembered."

Sam just shakes his head and squeezes Dean's thigh. "It's okay. They're just bruises. Kind of the least of our worries right now, don't you think?"

Dean exhales heavily. "Yeah, I guess so." Man, Dean really hates how hopeless that feels.

"That was a really nice way to wake up," Sam murmurs, "you know, for the whole two minutes we managed to not be fighting."

And Dean laughs softly, not because that's particularity funny but because he's so emotionally strung out that laughing is the only reaction he has left.

Sam places a curved finger under Dean's chin and Dean allows his head to be tilted up to meet the rough bluish-green waters of Sam's gaze. Sam smiles a little sadly and then leans in and kisses Dean, a barely-there press of lips but Dean grabs Sam's neck and holds on, not allowing his brother to pull away for a moment. It's not really a kiss at all at first, just his mouth resting against Sam's and swallowing Sam's puffed sighs. Then Sam leans in just that last inch and brushes his soft lips dryly back and forth on Dean's. For just a few seconds, Dean closes his eyes and focuses on nothing but the feeling of Sam beside him. But then he hears a bang from the kitchen below and he's brought back to himself enough to remember he promised Bobby they'd be right down.

"Bobby made breakfast," he whispers against Sam's lips, and then unwraps his limbs from Sam and stands. "I gotta take a leak, I'll meet you down there."

"Yeah, okay." Sam stands and follows Dean to the door but then stops him again before Dean can start down the hall toward the bathroom. "Hey, can you give me a minute with Bobby before you come down?"

"Uh, sure, okay," Dean shrugs. "What for?"

"I wanna apologize to him."

"Sam, you don't – "

"Yeah, I do have to," Sam interrupts, holding up a hand to indicate that his mind is already made up. "I couldn't control what happened yesterday, I know that, and I appreciate you being so insistent that wasn't my fault, I _really_ do. But whether I meant for it to happen or not doesn't change the fact that it happened. Bobby's like a second father to us and Cas, well okay, I'm not sure exactly what Cas is, but – I mean, he's at least a friend. And I hurt them, so they deserve an apology."

Dean nods, more than a little stunned, and chuckles nervously. "Wow, that's really … mature. When the hell did you get so grown up?"

Dean meant for his tone to be light and playful, but Sam clearly takes it the wrong way – huffing back a completely humorless laugh. He looks away for a second and licks his lips, taking a deep breath before he fixes his eyes on Dean's.

"A long time ago," he says seriously. "You just never wanted to notice."

Dean groans. God, he just can't do anything right today, can he? "Sam, I didn't – "

"I – I know," Sam sighs, shaking his head a little, "leave it, okay? I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's not, just, never mind. I'll meet you down there?"

Sam reaches out hesitantly, brushing his fingertips lightly on the back of Dean's hand. Then he smiles and Dean returns it, but both are so fake that it feels like a kick to the gut and he thinks it'd almost hurt less if Sam actually hit him or something. Everything's so messed up at this point, he isn't sure why they even bother pretending it's not. Sam turns and starts down the stairs (limping a little, Dean notes with whispers of _your fault, your fault, your fault_ spinning around him), and as he makes his way down the hallway, he swirls Sam's words around in his head.

_When did you get so grown up?_

_A long time ago, you just never wanted to notice_.

Dean's pretty sure Sam meant that _exactly_ the way it sounded, and even though it smarts a bit he's not entirely sure Sam isn't right. He's aware that he babies Sam; that he gets over-protective and hovers a little too close over his shoulder. That sometimes he doesn't treat his brother like they're equals, but he never _wanted_ to make Sam feel that way. That just sort of … happened. And isn't that just the worst excuse he's ever come up with. After Dean comes out of the bathroom (purposely avoiding the mirror; he has no interest in seeing how crappy he looks right now) he throws on the pair of jeans he'd been wearing yesterday, now a bit wrinkly because he hadn't moved them from the floor when they'd fallen off his body last night. Then he makes his way down the creaky, wooden stairs.

"Hey, Bobby?"

Sam's tentative voice floats around the corner, and Dean recognizes that tone so he pauses behind the door a minute to let Sam say what he needs to say.

"I just – wanted – to say that I'm sorry. For putting everyone through this again."

"Yeah, I know you are, kid," Bobby answers, his voice more kind and warm then Dean's ever heard it. "And it's okay. Dean told me what went down. Gettin' affected by a horseman of the damn apocalypse isn't somethin' you can fight against."

"Yeah, well, still," Sam says quietly, "it must suck for you guys to have to lock me up and everything, so … I'm sorry."

"I ain't gonna lie, you gave us a real good scare. You two chuckleheads are all I got left in this ol' world."

There's silence ringing in the room and Dean can just picture Sam nodding contritely and staring at the floor.

"But you're okay," Bobby continues abruptly, "so we can put this whole mess behind us now, move on to the next one."

Sam still says nothing, and Dean imagines maybe now he's picking at a loose thread near his knee and hiding behind his bangs like he does when he's beating himself up on the inside, but doesn't want anyone to know how upset he really is. There's pretty much only two ways to get Sam happy again when he gets like that, and changing the subject is the option Dean chooses because Bobby _definitely_ wouldn't be okay with the other one. Dean almost laughs at that – the idea of bursting in there, throwing his brother down onto the kitchen table and ravishing him, and watching the old man freak the fuck out – but actually, on second thought, that really isn't funny at all. It's more like halfway between hot and really, just, no.

"Smells great!" he says loudly, clapping his hands together and walking brusquely into the room.

"Just scrambled eggs and bacon, nothing to write home about," Bobby answers gruffly, setting a third plate down on the table.

"Well that's lucky, since we don't have a home," Dean jokes.

Dean gets two separate 'that is _not_ funny' looks thrown at him at the same time, and even though Bobby and Sam don't look anything alike, their faces are almost carbon copies of each other for a moment. Dean holds back a chuckle, because he's pretty sure he's the only one who finds that amusing.

"Ah, well, good to see we're all in a bad mood this morning," he cracks, smiling at the glare on Bobby's face.

"Just eat your damn breakfast," the man grumbles and then rolls his chair back to the stove to turn it off.

Dean takes a glance to make sure Bobby's back is turned, and then presses a quick kiss to the top of Sam's head. "I'm proud of you," he whispers in Sam's ear.

Sam smiles up at him, and while he's still got sad eyes, there's the hint of a real smile in there too, and that dulls the ache in Dean's gut just a bit. Then Dean sits down beside him and takes a few bites of the surprisingly good meal.

"This is pretty damn good, Bobby. Since when do you cook?" Dean asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Since I've become Ironside and can't do damn near anything else."

"Ah, so you can't beat demons and vampires anymore," Dean says with a 'who-cares' wave of his hand. "At least now you beat a mean egg."

Sam chokes on a laugh, spiraling into a coughing fit as Bobby brandishes a wooden spoon threateningly at Dean.

"You don't watch it, boy, I might just beat _you_."

Dean smiles as cheekily as he can manage while Sam snorts into his eggs, and Bobby shakes his head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'Idjit'.

* * *

They finished their breakfast mostly in silence, but every so often Dean reached over to brush his fingers on Sam's thigh under the table. It made Sam smile every time, but honesty, that's not why Dean did it. Almost everything he ever does is for Sam, but that one act was entirely selfish. The whole world just seemed to be crumbing on him lately, and then coming so close to losing Sam last night has him a little bit more shaken than he's comfortable admitting. He could see Sam in his peripheral vision and he could hear Sam swallowing so he knew his brother was there, but he still kept feeling the need to make absolutely _sure_. He really hopes Sam didn't know that's what he was doing, because it's so needy and pathetic that he cringes even admitting it to himself. But then, as they did the dishes together, Sam kept bumping his shoulder against Dean's, so maybe Sam needs to be reassured just as much as Dean does.

Now, Dean's sitting on the fraying couch in the living room, watching Sam help Bobby put the dishes away. They're chatting easily and Dean's completely content to just watch. He doesn't really have the energy for small-talk right now. He feels a slight gust of air and hears a faint fluttery sound that he should know too well by now, and even though he knows what's coming half a second before it does it still manages to startle him when Castiel's deep monotone sounds behind him.

"Hello Dean."

Dean huffs a half-annoyed-half-amused laugh. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"I apologize. I considered knocking on the door, but I wanted to speak to you privately before Bobby and Sam were aware of my presence."

_Well, that can't be good_. "Okay, what's up?"

Dean feels Cas's weight sinking onto the sofa beside him but doesn't move his gaze from the kitchen because now Bobby's telling what sounds like a dirty joke, and Sam is actually _laughing_. It's been way, way too long since Dean's heard Sam laugh.

"How is he?" Cas asks quietly.

Dean isn't gonna say it, but it's sort of making him feel a little warm on the inside that Cas seems to suddenly care so much about Sam. He'd seen the same sentiment echoed on Sam's face earlier when Bobby mentioned that Cas was planning on coming back to check on him.

"He's alright I guess," Dean shrugs.

"Has he been sick?"

Dean shakes his head. "Don't think so. Is that good?"

"I imagine so, although I'm hardly an expert on the subject. I've never met another human in this situation."

Dean tears his eyes away from his brother to stare incredulously behind himself at the angel. "Never? Like, never?"

Cas shakes his head, eyebrows knit in confusion at Dean's obvious astonishment. "An addiction to demon blood is not exactly a common-place ailment, Dean, surely you knew that."

"Course I knew that, but, I figured, I mean, you're telling me Sam's the only person who's ever … _ever_?"

"The only one I've ever heard of," Cas answers. "I cannot speak for my brothers, but I'm not exactly able to walk back into heaven and ask them."

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. "Shit. There really isn't a god-damn thing normal about us, is there?"

"The two of you are rather extraordinary," Cas agrees solemnly.

"Yeah." Dean exhales sharply through his nose. "Guess I'll take that as a compliment."

_A really freakin' twisted one_, he doesn't say out loud.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching as Bobby takes a book from off the counter and opens it on the kitchen table, and then Sam leans over to read whatever Bobby's pointing at.

"He looks well enough," Cas comments after a long moment.

Dean nods, that dull ache returning in the pit of his stomach. "He said he was a bit shaky, and he's bruised all to hell cause I didn't remember to tie him down. But I think he's gonna be okay."

"And how are you?" Cas asks.

Dean shrugs again and focuses intently on the fraying rug near his feet. "I'm okay too. Yesterday was shitty but it's done now, so."

"Will the two of you be alright?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean says nonchalantly. "Just gotta keep the kid away from bleeding demons and we'll be fine."

Dean can feel Cas's gaze boring into the side of his skull. "You know that isn't what I meant."

Of course Dean knows what Cas meant, but he's pretty damn sure he doesn't want to have this conversation. He considers brushing the whole thing off like it was nothing, like he normally would – shrugging casually and spouting some drivel about how they just need to keep at it and everything will work out. Even in his mind the words taste like a lie, but hell, isn't that what he does? He lies and he pretends and he pushes people away when they try to get close to him. And besides, if he was right about what the angel did or didn't see last night, this little chat is probably heading somewhere he really, really doesn't want to go. But deep down he knows it's useless to lie to Castiel. Somehow he always knows when Dean's lying, as annoying as that is. Regardless of what Dean says he knows Cas wouldn't call him out on it, but damn it, he's sick of lying and acting like everything's okay. Nothing's okay right now.

"I don't know," Dean says heavily. "I really don't."

Cas nods wordlessly, and Dean is compelled to keep going, if only because the ringing silence is worse.

"I mean, I hope so, but … all the shit me and Sam have been through lately … it's not exactly easy to bounce back from."

"Dean, the horsemen are very powerful – " Cas begins, but Dean cuts him off.

"God, I _know_ that! Why does everybody – ?" He glances quickly over to the kitchen to make sure they aren't being overheard. He's pretty damn irritated by the fact that all three of them; Sam, Bobby, and now even Cas; all assumed he'd be angry at Sam after yesterday. He's not that much of an asshole! And then he realizes that it's more so a sad commentary on the kind of person he seems to have become – the kind of person who'd think being mad at Sam was more important than taking care of him.

"Look, I'm not blaming him, Cas, just – everything's really messed up with us right now, that's all, and not just because of what happened yesterday."

"You know that he loves you, don't you?"

Dean's knee twitches and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks. This is going to be ridiculously awkward, no matter which way he plays it.

"Yeah, I know that," he sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He really wishes he could just sink into the floor right now so he doesn't have to ask the question that's burning the back of his throat. He'd like more than anything to just ignore it and go on believing it's just his and Sam's dirty little secret and pretending that they _won't_ be spending the rest of forever in the pit for what they do together in the darkness. But he knows what he saw on Cas's face last night, and he's so damn tired of pretending; he's just … tired.

"You – know about us, huh?" he mutters.

"You're referring to the homosexual relationship that you have with Sam?" Cas asks in that blunt, straight-shooter way of his, and Dean bristles.

"_Jesus_," he breathes, "yeah, that's what – but god, don't, don't just _say_ things like that." Dean chuckles nervously and scratches at the back of his neck.

Cas cocks his head and his blue eyes go wide and confused. "Are you embarrassed by it?"

"Am I – n-no, not …" Dean stutters. "I just, I mean, aren't you supposed to be condemning us to eternal hellfire or something right about now?"

"Why?" Cas has this utterly perplexed look all over his face, and it would be hilarious if Dean wasn't so uncomfortable.

"Because, you know," Dean gestures vaguely with his hand, "brothers, the bible or whatever."

"I'm not the one who decides whether people go to heaven or hell, Dean," Cas says simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah, but … I mean, you don't … care?"

"Why should I care? When I was assigned to you, my job was to keep you safe and whole for Michael. As far as I can tell your carnal relationship with your brother causes you no physical harm, so I see no reason to be bothered by it," Cas recites evenly, like he's a newscaster reading off a cue card, and that isn't really the kind of answer Dean was hoping for.

He blows out an exasperated breath. "Yeah, alright. Whatever."

"I've upset you again."

"No, just …" Dean sighs for what feels like the millionth time today, and it isn't even noon. He scrubs a hand over his face and can't quite hold back a small growl of frustration. "Could you just shut the damn angel manual for half a second here and talk to me as, like, my friend?"

Castiel is silent for a moment as he considers Dean. "As your friend. Alright," he begins, with a hint of quiet determination in his voice as if he isn't quite sure _how_ to just be someone's friend but really wants to try anyway. "Well, as your friend, I am aware that a relationship such as yours is unusual and that perhaps it would disturb others, but it doesn't disturb me. You live a difficult life, Dean. I think you deserve the chance to have some happiness and most of the time Sam seems to be the only thing that brings you any."

Dean's suddenly a bit shell-shocked, so he just nods.

"He also seems to bring you a lot of unhappiness," Cas adds, "and while I'm not sure how those two emotions can coexist, I believe that's just something I'm not able to understand."

And wow, if that doesn't just define their whole damn, screwed-up relationship in an irritatingly simple way that _only _Cas could come up with.

"Tell me about it," Dean laughs weakly.

"How could I tell you about something I don't understand?" Cas looks at him quizzically, but Dean just shakes his head dismissively, throwing an implied 'never mind' between them. There's no point in trying to explain the vernacular.

"It's just an expression."

"Oh, I see." Cas nods thoughtfully.

Dean scratches uneasily at the back of his neck. He hated having to have this conversation, but he's really freakin' grateful it turned out the way it did, even if it was all kinds of embarrassing. Cas has been an extremely strange presence in Dean's life in the year and a half that they've known each other; showing up randomly with weird news or tasks for him and Sam that Dean can always tell Cas wishes he didn't have to ask of them. He can be frustrating, probably the most frustrating friend Dean's ever had. But then he makes jokes without realizing it and tries his best to be empathetic, and really, honestly _tries_ to care about Sam even though it's Dean he's connected to, and Dean has to admit that he likes the man a lot. He'd been really dreading having this conversation because he wasn't sure how he'd deal with it if Cas wasn't okay about everything.

"Cas … thanks."

"You're welcome. You should continue to have a sexual relationship with Sam and not worry that it bothers me."

Dean chokes on a noise in his throat that's halfway between a laugh and a shudder. "And now it's awkward again," he says, clapping Cas on the back. "Did the best you could, big guy. C'mon, lets go see Sam and Bobby."


	7. Chapter 6

**So this chapter is a bit short and is** **mostly exposition, which I really don't enjoy writing! Hopefully it's not as boring to you as it is to me****.**** Sorry, it was a necessary chapter to get the boys to where I wanted them to be for the next one**** (A****lso, the thing about my broken keyboard still applies, so let me know if you find typos) **

* * *

Dean pushes himself briskly off the couch and sees Cas do the same out of the corner of his eye. He deliberately avoids eye-contact, because not only did a god-damn _angel _of the god-damn _Lord_ just basically gave Dean the go ahead to commit incest (and _gay_ incest at that, sweet mother of _fuck_), but he also said 'homosexual' and 'carnal' and a whole host of other words that should never come out of an angels mouth; all in the space of about five minutes and that's – just – there are really no words to describe that level of awkward. Dean's still reeling a little and if he meets Cas's unblinking, steel blue gaze, he'll either crack up or lose his breakfast. Unfortunately, as he comes within a few steps of the kitchen where Sam is now sitting at the table with his back towards them, Dean remembers one more thing he wanted to say before they can put all this sticky discomfort behind them and go back to the standard level of uneasiness Cas's presence usually causes.

Dean turns around and beckons Cas into the stairwell so Sam won't hear them, purposely keeping his gaze fixed at a spot around Cas's collarbone.

"Hey, Cas? You know all that stuff about the horseman and it not being Sam's fault this time?" he asks quietly and the angel nods. "Do you think you could repeat that to Sam? And not tell him I told you to?"

Cas narrows his eyes a little, which Dean only sees very faintly through his peripheral vision.

"I suppose so. Why?"

"He just feels really guilty about everything, and you don't really lie, so." Dean shrugs. He isn't at all sure whether it's actually a good idea or not, but he figures it just might make Sam stop blaming himself and being so mad at himself, so it's worth a shot.

"Isn't he already aware that he couldn't control it?" Cas asks, sounding genuinely perplexed.

"He, yeah he is, but … I don't know, I just think it would mean a lot to him coming from you."

"Oh. Well, if you think it would help."

Dean meets Cas's eyes briefly and forces a smile, already pretty certain this isn't one of his better ideas.

When Dean strolls into the kitchen with Cas trailing closely behind him, neither Bobby or Sam can get out so much as a 'Hey Cas', before the angel launches himself into a chorus of how powerful the horsemen are and how no one stands a chance fighting against them once they're infected and that Sam should know they don't blame him and how much they all care about him; all the while glancing back at Dean, wide-eyed, to make sure he's doing it right. He definitely isn't. The words are all true but coming from Cas they sounds rehearsed and Dean can barely keep from laughing and rolling his eyes in amusement-slash-exasperation. When Sam stammers a thank you and Cas goes for broke and moves forward enough to wrap an arm around him in the world's most awkward hug, Dean actually does crack up a little at the 'What the fuck is happening?' look Sam tosses his way over Cas's shoulder.

Later, when Cas is checking Sam over in the living room to make sure he's completely clean, Dean mentions their plan to take a few days off to Bobby. He's not sure how he expects the man to react, but what he gets is a thick, calloused finger wagged menacingly in his face.

"You heard Cas when he said it wasn't Sam's fault, right?" Bobby asks sharply. "Because I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you drag that boy's ass outta here so you can lock him in a motel room and get in his face about what he did."

"Yeah, 'course I heard him, I'm the one who asked him to say it!" Dean snaps back defensively, and then immediately regrets his harsh tone. Bobby's just trying to protect Sam; he should be grateful. But he can't help how much of a slap in the face it is that Bobby feels the need to protect Sam from _Dean_. If that isn't a perfect metaphor for how messed up things are, nothing is.

He takes a deep breath and starts again. "I'm not mad at him, Bobby. Everybody seems to think I am, but I swear I'm not. We just … ever since Ruby, it's like there's been this wall between us."

Bobby frowns, but nods. "Yeah, you ain't the only one who's noticed that."

Dean runs a hand through his short hair. "Maybe it even happened before that, I really … don't know. Maybe …" Dean closes his eyes for a moment and sighs again, "maybe me going to hell messed him up a lot more than I realized."

"I didn't see him much, but the few times I did, he … he had me pretty damn worried," Bobby says quietly, a touch of sadness in his voice now. "He went nuts, it was like I didn't even know him anymore, and I've known that kid almost as long you have."

"Yeah," Dean mutters, choosing not to dwell on that comment because he just _can't_. It hurts way too much to think of his baby brother in that kind of pain. "Well, look, either way, I mean if we're gonna stop this thing? We gotta be a team again and the only way that's gonna happen is if we hash this out. And we can't do that here."

Bobby somehow seems to understand and not at the same time, but Dean thinks that's sort of always been Bobby's view when it comes to them – maybe Bobby doesn't always get the way he and Sam work but he always gives them the benefit of the doubt. Bobby nods his agreement and doesn't say anything else, so Dean takes it for the silent approval it is and claps Bobby on the shoulder. He thanks him for his help with Sam last night, and then heads upstairs to start getting their things together. Sam joins him a few minutes later, announcing that Cas had to leave again and Bobby has re-buried himself in a mountain of books – "that's almost as tall as me," Sam adds with a wry smile. Dean smiles back; even though it's not a full, thousand-watt smile on his brother's face, it's a lot better than that lost, sorrowful look Sam's been wearing all day.

Dean packs up his clothes in silence, making sure to reach under the pillow he'd slept on for his knife, and then internally scolding himself a little when he realizes he'd been so worn out and upset last night that he hadn't remembered to put it there. Sam doesn't say anything further, but every time he passes by Dean he brushes his fingertips over Dean's shoulder blades; gently, like little physical post-it notes reminding Dean that he's there. Dean tries to smile but the tentativeness of Sam's touch makes Dean think what Sam's really saying is that he's sorry. Sam hasn't been his usual talkative self this morning, and at first Dean thought he was just tired but now it feels more like Sam's going back to how he was the first few months after he broke the final seal – quiet, remorseful, and dutifully taking whatever Dean was willing to give him because he didn't think he deserved anything more. And that happening is absolutely the last thing Dean wants. What he does want is to lean into the touch; maybe wrap Sam up in a warm hug, scratch through his hair and whisper to him until he believes that Dean forgives him. Or maybe just pounce and throw Sam onto the bed and show him just how much he still loves him and how relieved he is that Sam's okay. But he doesn't do any of that, he doesn't even speak, because if he gives himself an out then he'll cave and they'll never even make it to the car, and he can't let that happen. As much as it's going to suck, they need to fix this and they need to do it right now.

After a quick goodbye to Bobby during which the older man glances back and forth between Dean and Sam and throws a look at Dean that clearly says 'Don't you be too hard on him', Dean makes his way to the impala with Sam following behind him. He throws their bags into the backseat and when he drops his exhausted body down onto the leather seat he smiles encouragingly over at Sam, trying to pretend he's confident that they'll get through this. Sam's lips twitch a bit like he meant to smile back, but couldn't quite manage it, so Dean starts the car with a sigh, and pulls out of Bobby's lot feeling more hopeless then ever. He toys for a few moments with the idea of saying something, _anything_ to get rid of that lost puppy look on Sam's face, but he can't even begin to fathom what the hell he would say. They don't exactly make an "I forgive you for drinking demon blood" Hallmark card. Sam doesn't really seem to feel like taking anyway; he just slumps against the seat and within five minutes his head's drooped against the window and his breathing's evened out and Dean's pretty sure he's fallen asleep. _Damn_.

Dean knows Sam's just wiped out, but he wishes Sam had stayed awake because being alone with his thoughts seems like a really bad idea right now. He can't even convince _himself_ that things will be okay, let alone convince his brother, and Sam didn't even seem to have the energy to try. But they _have _to try, they just have to. This is about more then just the two of them now – it's about the whole damn world. The only hope they have of stopping the apocalypse is if they do it together, as partners, and it's been so long since they've acted like partners that Dean's not even sure how to do it anymore. They need to get it back, whatever it was that they had, because if the worst happens and they can't stop it? Dean can't let them go down with things so wrong between them. If they're gonna die, then they're gonna die together, and Sam's gonna know exactly how much Dean loves him when they do – how much he loves every cell, every molecule, every thought and feeling, every inch of Sam's soul and every single beat of Sam's heart.

The heart that could so easily have stopped beating last night.

That thought makes Dean freeze and then tense up, damn near driving off the road for a second as a searing wave of ice rolls through his chest. Once he's got the steering wheel straightened out, he glances over at the giant body next to him, and then suddenly he can't help himself. He's pulling over to the gravel shoulder before his mind even knows what it's telling his limbs to do, and the second the impala is in park, Dean reaches over and grabs Sam's arm. He pulls his sleeping brother toward himself, as carefully as he can in his panicked state, and then drapes his arm around Sam's shoulder. Sam is so deeply asleep that he puts up no resistance – falling into and then setting against Dean's body, his head lolling onto Dean's shoulder. Dean's throat makes a choked noise that's completely beyond his control, just like the rest of him seems to be right now. He wraps his other arm around Sam as well and squeezes tightly, pushing his nose through the hair on the top of Sam's head and trying desperately to stop his stinging eyes from giving in to tears. _Again_. Fuck, could he be any more pathetic? Sam's fine, everything's fine, why is he still being a giant girl about it?

Maybe because everything _isn't_ fine, at all.

Sam lets out a sleepy sigh and sinks a little further into Dean's side, blowing out hot breaths on Dean's neck and making a snuffley noise that probably means he's dreaming. Dean hopes with everything he has in him that it's a good dream, but after yesterday the chances of that are probably pretty small. Dean's pretty sure neither of them have had anything good to dream about for a really long time. Sam's breathing quickens and Dean can't fight the urge to rock him a little back and forth like he used to when Sam was seven or eight and would wake up in a cold sweat and beg to sleep in his big brother's bed. Dean never gave it a second thought, then – Sammy was scared and it was his duty to protect him. Dean's never taken anything as seriously in his entire life as he always took his job of caring for Sam. And it was never a burden to him, like Sam seems to think it was; never even for a second. He's aware of what psychological professionals would say; that it robbed him of his childhood or something, being responsible for another person at such a young age, but Dean wouldn't hesitate to start throwing punches at any asshole who ever said Sam wasn't good for him. It was him and Sam against the world, had been since the day Sam was born, and as messed up as everything is right now Dean still wouldn't trade it for anything.

Sam whimpers a little, so quietly that if Dean hadn't felt it against his skin he probably wouldn't have noticed. He closes his still-burning eyes and rubs up and down Sam's back lovingly a few times.

"Its okay, Sam, I'm right here," he whispers into Sam's hair, and just like when they were kids, that's all it takes for Sam to settle.

After a few minutes of breathing deep lungfuls of Sam's comforting scent, Dean gets himself back under control enough to drive again, but he doesn't move Sam back to his side of the bench seat. Even after a night from hell Sam's actually sleeping peacefully for a change so Dean's not gonna risk waking him. He adjusts the body against his a little so he can hold Sam up with just one arm, and then pulls back onto the highway; tires squealing on the blacktop in a peel-out Dean can never quite resist.

* * *

Dean's plan had been for them to drive the 20-ish minutes from Sioux Falls to Canton and set up at the nearest motel, but when Sam had fallen asleep Dean changed his mind. He figured Sam probably hadn't slept well at all the night before, so after pulling Sam's warm body against his, Dean hit the I-29 and kept going until his arm was so numb he was starting to worry that it might need to be amputated. Sam finally wakes up as Dean is pulling into the parking lot of a pretty decent looking hotel with white and blue trim and Tudor architecture. Sam blinks himself slowly awake and Dean gives him a minute to squint in the sunlight and get himself upright before he glances over.

"Morning," Dean grins.

Sam blinks a few more times and then rubs his fingertips into his eyes. "Where are we?" he mumbles groggily.

"Omaha."

Sam looks back and forth between Dean and the hotel in front of them a few times, and Dean can almost see the wheels turning as Sam's foggy brain attempts to process that.

"We – Nebraska?" Sam asks after a minute, his voice still rough and thick with sleep. "What are we … did you find a job or something?"

"No, I … you fell asleep," Dean says, shrugging. "So I just kept going."

Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and squints over at Dean, still looking so adorably confused that Dean has to resist the urge to chuckle and lick Sam's sleepy skin.

"How long have we been driving?" Sam pushes his long bangs out of his eyes, leaving them sticking out at an odd angle over his ear.

"About four hours."

Sam fixes a gaze on Dean, now looking considerably more alert, and … something else. He almost looks a little … sad maybe?

"You drove for an extra four hours because you thought I needed a nap?" There's a note of incredulity in Sam's voice, almost like he's offended or something, and Dean isn't sure what to make of it so he just shrugs again.

"You tossed and turned all night."

Sam's still starting at Dean with a look on his face that's an odd mix of surprise and misery, but he doesn't say anything else, so Dean decides to let them drop it. He pushes the squeaky driver's side door open and goes into the lobby to book them a room without another word to Sam. The twenty-something, auburn-haired clerk glances at Sam in the car when Dean asks for a king-sized bed, but the crack he's always half expecting doesn't come; the girl just smiles softly, maybe a little bit knowingly, and wishes him a pleasant stay. When he gets back with two old fashioned bronze keys, Sam is just staring at his hands, lost in thought. Dean gets back into the car and leans over, bumping his fist on Sam's shoulder and snapping his brother out of his reverie.

"Hey, listen," he starts quietly, "I just wanted to say, before we go in there, that … I mean, whatever happens, I still …"

Dean trails off, but unexpectedly, Sam reaches across the seat and takes Dean's hand.

"I know," he says, gently squeezing Dean's fingers. "Me too."

* * *

**PS - For those of you asking if I was actually gonna make them go to a motel and have it out, damn straight I am! Ohh, it's gonna be so angsty *giggles menacingly***


	8. Chapter 7

**Ye be warrrrned, there be a fair few f-bombs near the end :) I got really into Dean's head in this one and I may have gotten carried away**

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The first thing Sam does when he follows Dean into the room is laugh. Dean looks back over his shoulder, confused, but Sam just shakes his head and continues to chuckle at some inside joke that Dean's clearly not yet part of.

"What?" he asks, smiling, but he hears the notes of defensiveness in his own voice.

"Just … this place," Sam shrugs and gestures around the room. "Nice digs for a change."

Dean takes a glance around the room, and yeah okay, it is a lot nicer then their usual standards (although often enough they're in dives so crappy even hookers wouldn't turn tricks in, so he's not sure the word 'standards' even belongs in that sentence) . There's a fluffy, white quilt on the enormous four-poster bed, accompanied by at least ten squishy looking pillows. Dean kind of can't wait to sleep there, but he also has the sudden urge to take a running leap onto it just to ruin how stupidly pristine it looks. The carpet isn't stained and the wallpaper is flowery and wouldn't look out of place in an 80-year-old woman's kitchen, but it isn't peeling and there are no crappily plastered patch spots. There's a burgundy couch in the corner by the TV that still appears to be in possession of all its stuffing and _doesn't_ look like a mass homicide took place on it like the one at that last place – Dean shudders a bit as he remembers fabric ripped all to hell and covered in crusty, dark red stains that he was almost positive were blood. Dean can't see into the bathroom from where he's standing, but he's sure if he looked he'd find a sink with no rust stains or water that runs brown at first, and a shower that he could spend hours in with Sam and the hot water tank wouldn't dream of running out until they'd enjoyed every last bit of each other.

So yeah, it's a nice place, really nice, but that doesn't explain why Sam's still snickering away to himself as he drops his duffle bag down onto the table.

"So what?" Dean asks brazenly, even though he knows it's been at least a minute since Sam's comment.

"So nothing." Sam twists around at the waist and flashes Dean a white-toothed smile. "Just, I mean it's like you got us a fancy room so we'd have nice place to yell at each other. It's just funny, that's all."

"Oh I – I didn't – I just thought – " Dean splutters, for some reason feeling a strong need to defend himself. "I thought it'd be … it's not _that_ stupid, is it?"

"It's not stupid at all." Sam shrugs again and glances around. "Kind of reminds me of that place in Connecticut, except without all the creepy dolls."

Dean snorts, and before he can stop himself he's saying "And maybe this time you won't get drunk and beg me to kill you," and then he's wishing it were possible to kick himself in the face. _Idiot_.

"No promises," Sam returns easily; his tone still light and the smile is still frozen on his face but the sparkle went out in his eyes the second Dean spoke.

It's so subtle that if Dean didn't know Sam so well he wouldn't even notice, but he does know Sam that well and he really wishes he hadn't just said that. They're supposed to be mending fences here, not bringing up dark periods from their past that neither of them want to think about! _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. But sometimes Dean's big mouth is too quick for his brain and now it's out there, floating between them like a balloon of tension. Dean's not sure what else to do so he shrugs out of his jacket and digs his hands into one of the pockets, pretending to be looking for something but aware that he's probably not fooling Sam even a little bit.

Sam's always been able to see right through him.

"I'm gonna take a shower," Sam says after a minute, fixing Dean with a quick smile that doesn't quite make it to his eyes and then moving toward a door at the other end of the room that's probably the bathroom.

"Want some company?" Dean asks suggestively, his brain apparently on autopilot now and just spitting out every stupid thing it can possibly think of.

Sam stops short and turns back around, and this time his grin is genuine. "Aren't we supposed to be fighting?"

Dean huffs and scratches absently at the back of his neck. "No we're … I don't know, making up I guess?"

Sam nods and his eyes glitter in amusement, and Dean's pretty sure he's never seen anything so beautiful. It's been way, _way_ too long since Sam's looked so cheerful.

"Well we should get to it then, I hear make-up sex is fantastic," Sam declares dramatically, beaming like headlights. "I'll be five minutes."

Dean heaves a fake put-upon sigh and mutters "Yeah, okay," in mock disappointment, and Sam leans in and kisses the corner of Dean's mouth before he disappears into the bathroom. Dean runs a hand over his face and blows out another breath. He rolls his shoulders and tosses his head back and forth a few times, trying to shake the tension out of his body. He can hear a creaking coming from behind the door that separates him from Sam; sounds like shower nozzles being twisted, and then a few seconds later the door opens and Sam steps back into the room, brushing his hair back from where it's fallen into his face.

"I think the shower's busted."

"Oh. Do, uh, do you want me to get us a different room?"

Sam shakes his head and flops down onto the bed. "No, it's fine. I don't smell that bad, do I?"

Dean laughs a little and shakes his head. "You don't smell bad."

_Pretty damn far from it_, he doesn't need to say out loud. He's actually really digging the way Sam smells right now.

"Alright!" Sam sits back up and claps his hands together. "Let's get this show on the road."

Dean nods and tries to smile, but suddenly there's bile burning the back of his throat. How can Sam be so calm about this? Why isn't he freaking out like Dean is? Yeah, Dean means for this to be them 'working things out', but doesn't Sam realize how easily this could go the other way and break them? But Sam's probably right; better to just get this over with, knowing them it's gonna get out of control fast and end up taking them all night. _Oh joy_.

"Okay, well, first I, uh …" He draws in and then blows out a shaky breath before he continues. Sam is _not_ gonna be happy about this. "I want you to tell me about what happens when you're detoxing."

Oh yeah, Sam's definitely not happy. His whole face clouds over so fast it's almost comical; his mouth drawing into a thin line and his eyes turning dull and gray. It's like Sam's bitch face mixed with that kicked puppy look that just breaks Dean's heart.

"Dean … no."

"I need you to tell me," Dean says firmly. The big brother in him is screaming like a maniac in his head; screaming at him to hug Sam and tell him it's okay, and that he doesn't have to do this – doesn't have to relive such fresh, obviously painful memories. But he can't back down; he has to know. He didn't make Sam tell him last time, which means Sam's spent nearly a year dealing with those memories alone.

"It's over now, let's just leave it," Sam pleads. "I know how much this whole thing hurts you, I do, but please, let's just let this one go."

"We can't do that, Sammy." Dean's voice breaks on his little brother's nickname. "I know it sucks, but we have to do this, we have to get everything out or it's just gonna keep building and festering until it destroys us."

Sam rubs his knuckles into his eyes. "Dean, I just … I mean, why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you even want to know? I don't wanna talk about it, and you … it'll only make you feel worse. So what would be the point?"

"Because we need to fix this!" Dean cries, his arms flailing helplessly by his sides. "You and me – it's been different, wrong. For a long time, longer than I thought. And it's been killing me, Sam, but until what you said last night I never realized how much _more_ it's been killing you."

"Last night?" Sam looks genuinely confused. "Did we talk last night?"

"When you – you don't remember?"

Sam shakes his head.

"I guess you were kinda half asleep. You … you asked me not to call you Sammy."

"I've asked you not to call me Sammy a million times," Sam says flatly.

"Yeah, when you were a kid," Dean reasons, "but it's been years since … and this time was different. You said something about me hating you, and that you didn't deserve to be my Sammy anymore. And god, that's – "

Dean's windpipe closes up a little as a wave of emotion hits him hard in the chest.

"That isn't okay. At all," Dean continues, trying his best to keep his voice steady. "You're not perfect but you will _always_ be my Sammy, and if you ever thought even for a second that wasn't true then we have a serious problem."

Sam is quiet for what feels to Dean like a long time. He's leaned over so his elbows are resting on his knees, and his hands are clasped together so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. Dean can't see his face because the way his head is hanging hides it behind too-long bangs, but he's never needed to see Sam's expression to know exactly what he's feeling. Those clenched arms and hunched shoulders speak for themselves.

"Every fear I've ever had comes to life and everyone I've ever loved shows up to tell me exactly how much I've let them down."

Sam's quiet voice startles Dean just a bit, like maybe he wasn't really expecting his brother to give in and tell him.

"What?" he asks, his voice suddenly raspy and weak.

"That's what happens," Sam continues, still focusing his gaze on his hands. "You wanted to know, so … there is it."

Dean watches Sam intently for a few moments, stuck between hoping he'll keep going and hoping he won't say another word. Dean spent five excruciating hours listening to Sam in what sounded like unbearable pain and fear and Dean's really not sure he's gonna be able to handle hearing about it in any kind of detail. At least not without breaking and pulling Sam into the bed and promising him over and over that he'll never let this happen again. It doesn't matter how many times Sam insists that it isn't Dean's fault – it _is_. He's the one who jumped at the chance to go after Famine; he's the one who put Sam in the position to relapse. God, what he did is practically like letting an alcoholic loose in a liquor store. He's the older brother – it's his job to protect Sam from things like this! And he didn't.

"Sam …" Dean begins.

"There's torture too," Sam interrupts as if he didn't hear Dean speak. "Like, the strapped to a table with chains and leather, getting carved up to pieces kind of torture. I mean, I know it's not real, but … it feels real. At the time."

Dean really wishes he could say he's surprised by that, but honestly he suspected as much. The way Sam screams and begs for it to stop, that definitely sounded like someone being tortured to Dean, even from the floor above. And he should have done everything in his power to keep Sam from ever having to go through that. Dean's voice has completely given out on him at this point, so he walks slowly toward the bed and sits beside Sam. He really wants to take Sam's hand or something, any little gesture that would say 'I'm here, Sammy', but the way Sam tenses and then shifts his body away from Dean's – a really, really horrible idea pops into Dean's head that he can't believe he never considered before.

"Is it …" Dean pauses. He isn't totally sure he wants to know the answer to the question that burns like acid inside his chest, but then again, how could he ever live with himself if the answer was yes and he never even asked, never tried to make it right?

He takes a deep breath. "Is it ever … me?"

When Sam finally looks up he seems confused and _oh god, Sam, please understand what I mean_ because Dean's positive he doesn't have the strength to actually say the words out loud. But Sam's eyebrows are scrunched together and he's shaking his head a little and _shit_ he doesn't know and Dean's gonna have to say it.

"Am I ever, the one, who's …" he gestures vaguely and then looks away, his face hot and ashamed, but something finally clicks in Sam.

"The one who's doing the torturing?" Sam asks loudly.

Dean closes his eyes. It hurts to even hear Sam say the words.

"Dean, no!" Sam cries, inching a bit closer and forcing Dean to meet his eyes. "Of course you aren't. You wouldn't ever hurt me, why would you even think that?"

Dean wishes he could be as sure about that as Sam is, but he isn't, and the one word that keeps bouncing around in his head is the reason why not – Hell. He wouldn't have been surprised if an image of him _had_ been the one torturing Sam in his hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time he's kicked Sam's ass over this addiction. Shit, it wouldn't even be the second.

"Dean, look at me."

Reluctantly, he does.

"I know what you did in Hell," Sam says gently, reading Dean's mind. "But I also know _you_. I don't care how many people you hurt down there, we both know that you'd die before you'd hurt me. I mean, you've clocked in the face a few times, when I was being an idiot and I deserved it," Sam adds, his eyes smiling, "but you'd never _really_ hurt me. Not like that."

"Yeah," Dean mutters.

"Sometimes it's Alastair, sometimes it's Ruby, but it's _never_ you, do you hear me? Never," Sam says, slowly and emphatically, and he sounds so certain that Dean's really tempted to believe him.

Sam scoots closer still and takes Dean's face in his hands, staring into Dean's eyes, searching. Then he leans in and kisses Dean, slow and warm, and Dean meets him there, loving when Sam hums and slides his tongue along Dean's bottom lip. God, Dean wants more than _anything_ to just get lost in that kiss; it's been such a long time since he and Sam have been like this – talking honestly and actually acting like they love each other, not just quick, rough fucks whenever they're horny or riled up from a hunt. It feels like forever since Dean's allowed himself to be vulnerable like this; trusting that if he falls apart Sam will be there to pick up the pieces. Because for a long time, he _didn't_ trust Sam. But it exhausts him to carry everything by himself all the time, and he _wants _to let Sam back in; to get things back to how it was before all the crap that's come between them. And Dean knows if they're ever going to get back to that, they need to lay everything out on the table, everything. So even though right now he'd love to just lose himself in lust and take Sam, gentle and loving, he can't. Not yet. He needs to force them to keep talking.

He plants his hands firmly on Sam's shoulders and pushes him back enough to detach their mouths. Dean's about to attempt explaining to Sam why they have to stop kissing, why they have to keep talking, but Sam seems to understand anyway. He nods a little and waits for Dean to take a few deep breaths and collect his thoughts. Sam just about shut Dean's brain down with that kiss.

"Do you see me?" Dean asks after a minute, dreading the answer to this question just as much as the last one, but once again he just has to know.

Sam sighs and purposely doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "Yeah."

He'd suspected that much too. "And I … I tell you that you've let me down? Like the others do?"

"Dean, do you … do you understand what's happening when I'm down there?" Sam asks slowly; cautiously.

"I … not really, I guess." Dean shrugs.

"The demon blood, I know you're gonna hate me saying this, but it makes me feel powerful, indestructible. Like nothing can touch me. So when we have to get it out of me … it kind of, turns on me and does the exact opposite. Instead of making me feel strong and safe, it – it's like it brings out everything that scares me."

Dean nods slowly. "Okay … I guess that makes sense. What's your point?"

"That I – yeah, I do see you sometimes," Sam says carefully, "and you tell me that I'm a monster and you hate me, and you wish you'd never come to get me from Stanford, but Dean, you have to know, none of that is about you, okay? It's all me, it's about _my _insecurities. You haven't done anything wrong."

Dean blinks. "How can you say that? If you think that I hate you and I regret ever coming to get you, obviously I must've done something wrong!"

"No, Dean, that's just it – I _don't_ think that you hate me," Sam insists. "It's … just … argh, I don't know how to explain it!"

He slides off the bed and paces across the room, rubbing his temples like he has a headache.

"Try," Dean says, and it comes out sounding more like an order than he meant it to.

Luckily Sam doesn't seem to notice; he just exhales heavily and nods, but doesn't turn back around. "All that stuff, I know it's not … it isn't about me thinking you hate me. It's about me being scared that one day you're going to leave me again."

"What? Sam – !"

"I _know_, Dean," Sam interrupts. "You made the deal to save me and you didn't have a choice, I know all that. I didn't say it was a rational fear, okay? It's just … how I feel."

Dean is torn halfway between livid and heartbroken, but he somehow manages to clench his jaw and keep his objections to himself. He promised himself that he was going to give Sam a chance to explain before he jumps in and starts trying to fix it.

Sam sighs again. "I know what it's like to live without you and sometimes … Dean, sometimes I'm so terrified I'll lose you again that it's hard to breathe. So the things I imagine you saying to me down there, it's just how that fear, I don't know, manifests itself."

Dean can feel his chest tighten. Being terrified of losing the person you love … that's a feeling Dean is all too familiar with. And it's a horrible feeling. There were moments last night when Dean was tempted to drive a knife through the soft spot on his skull just so he could get away from that feeling.

Sam turns around slowly and faces Dean with sad, pleading eyes. "It isn't your fault."

Dean nods, but can't help thinking that yeah, it kinda is his fault. At least partly.

"C'mere," he says quietly.

Sam looks a little hesitant, and _that_ smarts a lot more than it probably should, but after a moment he moves back towards the bed and sits beside Dean.

"I have to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth, even if you think it's gonna hurt me, okay?"

"Okay," Sam agrees cautiously.

Dean takes a deep breath. "Are you … afraid that I might die? Or that I'll leave you, like … by choice."

"I … both."

_Damn it._ To be honest, it's the answer Dean was expecting, but that doesn't make it sting any less. He doesn't say anything for a minute – _can't_ say anything for a minute. Or maybe two. He would never leave Sam, never, and the fact that Sam thinks he would is so many kinds of wrong that it makes Dean's head spin. But Sam's got that lost puppy look all over his face again and Dean's always been powerless to that, since the day Sam was born. It's the look Sam wears when something's really wrong and he's silently begging his big brother to make it okay again. Dean couldn't resist if he tried; his 'big brother' mode is so deep-rooted in his personality that it's a completely uncontrollable reflex.

"Sam, you – we're family, you know? That means something to me. Means we stick together even when things suck." Dean smiles weakly and reaches over to brush some hair out of Sam's eyes. "I can't exactly promise that I'm not gonna die, but as long as I'm still kickin' there isn't a damn thing you could do to get rid of me, okay?"

Sam swallows thickly.

"Say it, Sam. Tell me you believe that I'm not going anywhere."

Sam takes a deep, shaky breath, but he nods. "Okay. I believe you."

He still looks pretty miserable and Dean wants to wipe that sorrowful look off Sam's face, to cover his beautiful little brother's face in kisses until it forgets how to look sad ever again, but instead Dean forces himself to plugging along.

"What does everyone else say? The other people you see down there," Dean clarifies when Sam looks confused.

"Oh," Sam mumbles, closing his eyes and rubbing at his forehead again. "They, well, I see Dad. And he says … pretty much what you'd expect him to say. That he's never forgiven me for going away to school, that I was never good enough for him, or for you. And I see myself, when I was maybe ten? And he – I … I talk about how I've ruined our life, how I shouldn't have lied to you because bad things happen when I keep secrets from you, like you used to tell me all the time when I was a kid."

Dean's trying to stay still and quiet and just let Sam get it all out, but suddenly he can't help himself. The tone in Sam's voice is one Dean recognizes – it's all that self-loathing that he himself feels every single day, and he knows how much it hurts, so he moves in a bit closer to his dejected-looking brother and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. He doesn't rub or squeeze or anything like he wants to; just lets his hand rest on Sam's back and hopes that the warmth and weight lets Sam know that it's okay.

"And Jess," Sam continues, unenthusiastically scratching at a spot on his knee. "I see her on fire … and she says that it's my fault she's dead, that she would have been better off if she'd never even met me."

Dean really wishes he could tell Sam that one isn't true, but it kinda is. There are a lot of people in the world who'd have been better off if they'd never met him or Sam. Dean doesn't know what it's like to have your girlfriend killed by a demon who was really after you, but he knows how he felt when they lost Jo – how empty and devastated and worthless he felt because she got hurt trying to protect him. He wasn't _in_ love with her, but he definitely loved her and a part of him died when she did, so Jessica's death must've made Sam feel a hundred times worse than Jo's death made Dean feel … and Dean doesn't even want to think about how broken that means Sam must've been. They never really talked about it, then, but now Dean's beginning to think maybe they should have. Dean tried a few times to get Sam to open up about it but Sam resisted, so after a while Dean just left him to deal with it on his own. Looking back now, that feels like it was probably a mistake. Dean probably should've tried harder.

"The worst one, though? Is Mom." Sam's eyes are sparkling with tears now and his voice is wavering a little.

"You – see Mom?" Dean's almost afraid to ask. There's no way this is going anywhere good.

"She … she says that she hates me," Sam whispers brokenly. "Because of what you and me … do."

_Oh god_. Dean doesn't have any idea what he could possibly say to make that one better. Because for all he knows, it could be true. The mom he barely got to know but loves so much, the one he and Dad risked everything to avenge, could very well be sitting up in heaven looking down on him and Sam and hating them for what they've become. Maybe even wishing she'd never had them in the first place.

"She says that we're disgusting, and that I'm selfish for doing this to you."

"You're not doing anything _to _me, Sam, you know that."

Sam sniffs and looks away, but not quick enough for Dean to miss seeing a few tears spill over his watery eyelashes. But then Sam just shakes his head and doesn't offer any further explanation; like it hurts too much to force the words out.

"Sam … " Dean reaches his other hand over and squeezes Sam's thigh.

"She said 'Dean's already been to Hell for you once, are you really so selfish that you're willing to send him back,'" Sam grinds out, so low and quiet that if Dean wanted to he could almost dare to hope he heard wrong.

But deep down, he knows he didn't. And it's like a white hot knife right through his sternum, cutting off his air supply and turning his whole body to ice.

"Please tell me you know that isn't true," he whispers, trying to tug Sam in close but Sam's tensing again and pushing Dean away.

"I need a minute," he says shakily.

"Sam – "

"No!" Sam snaps suddenly, pulling completely away from Dean and standing up. He wipes at the tears on his face roughly, like they've offended him by being there, and then stalks back toward the bathroom.

"Sam, c'mon, don't do this!" Dean's aware that he's pretty damn close to begging, something he usually has way too much pride for, but he's way beyond the point of control. "I don't care if you need to cry, or – "

"I didn't want to talk about it! Because I knew this was gonna happen!" Sam fires back, whipping back around and shooting daggers at Dean with his eyes. "So forgive me if I'm not gonna cry into your shoulder like I'm a fucking little kid!"

"Why the fuck not?" Dean cries indignantly, standing up too and squaring his shoulders. "I'm your big brother, Sam, if – "

"Dean, stop it." Sam's voice is dangerously quiet now and he's got his don't-fuck-with-me face on; a pretty clear warning to Dean that he _means_ it. "If you use 'I'm your big brother' as an excuse to manipulate me into doing what you want _one_ more time, I swear to God … "

He trails off with a growl and then heaves a giant, frustrated sigh. Dean holds back a few hundred angry retorts that are all fighting to come out at once, because Sam is possibly the most stubborn person on the planet when he wants to be and Dean can tell this is definitely not the moment to dig in his own heels, as much as it hurts to hear Sam accuse him of being manipulating. Which, alright, maybe is a little bit true, but still.

"Just … I need … a minute, okay?" Sam holds up a hand to indicate he's not willing to negotiate this one, and then storms off into the bathroom and Dean can hear him locking the door.

God-fucking-damnit! Dean could just scream and throw things and maybe take a machete to all those damn pillows; sitting there looking all pretty and white and so god damn perfect it should be illegal. Now his perpetually screwed up life is being mocked by _pillows_, for fuck's sake. Great, just bloody fantastic. This isn't how today was supposed to play out! Sam was supposed to tell him about the withdrawal and Dean was supposed to soothe him and say how hard it is to listen to it and how happy he is that Sam's safe and that it's over, and then they were supposed to – he … alright, fine, Dean has no idea what he was expecting would happen. But not this! Not Sam mad and hurt and refusing to let Dean help him!

_Why should he? You never let him help you_.

Dean's fully aware that it makes absolutely no sense, but he could have _sworn_ it was his reflection in the mirror that just said that. And now the smarmy asshole is smirking back at him because they both know he's right, whether or not either of them will admit it – he never _does_ let Sam help him, so why should he expect anything different from Sam? Dean flops down onto the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. One more crack outta that dick in the mirror and he's gonna smash it into a million pieces with his bare hands.

"Friggin' jerk," he mutters. And now he's talking to himself. Well that's just … _fuck_.

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**PS - Three pages of reviews! That's a record for me! Thanks lovelies! I send every one of you a telepathic signal for a dream tonight of Jared, Jensen and Misha shirtless and wet :) Enjoy!**


	9. Chapter 8

**Hello party people! It's been too long! Thanks for being so patient! **

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"_Everyone in this family died for you, Sam," she whispers unfeelingly. "Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think about something other then yourself long enough to realize how much everyone has sacrificed for you? Dean died to save you, he spent forty years in Hell so that you wouldn't have to. Your father died so he could give Dean back to you, because he knew you'd never survive without your big brother."_

_Distain drips off the last two words. Big Brother. Like it's something offensive. It's almost more then Sam can bear to see his beautiful mother with such malice in her eyes. Green eyes, __**Dean's**__ eyes. There's pure hatred in those eyes, and even though Dean's never looked at him that way, Dean looks so much like her and it doesn't take much for Sam to imagine his brother in her place right now. If Sam focuses on just the moss green of her irises, instantly it's Dean there, condemning him, hating him._

"_And me," she continues. "I died because I ran into that room to protect you, to protect my baby. And I burned for it."_

"_I'm sorry," Sam whispers. "I'm so sorry."_

_He's curled up in the corner, shivering violently and deserving every word she spits at him. She's right – all the people he's ever loved have given up everything to keep him safe, and yet he still manages to fuck up at every turn and cause them more and more pain every time he does. He wraps his arms around his knees and then buries his face into his forearms so he doesn't have to see her eyes anymore. They're big and round and so green they're almost like emeralds, and they're such a carbon copy of Dean's that it's like a knife right in Sam's gut to see so much loathing pouring out of them._

"_I should have listened to him. He told me, you know. He told me if I didn't disturb him then no one would get hurt."_

"_I was just a baby," Sam breathes into his arms, so softly he's pretty sure she didn't hear it._

"_I should have just let him have you," she hisses venomously. _

"_You're the one who made the deal!" Sam shouts desperately, still not lifting his head but making sure she can hear him this time. "He told you he was going to come back in ten years and you said yes anyway! He killed you and he put demon blood in me because you let him! That wasn't my fault!"_

"_Dean and your father and I could have had a happy life without you," she continues, as if Sam hadn't spoken, almost as if Sam wasn't even really there. "How old is my Dean now, thirty? He'd probably be married by now, maybe even have a baby of his own. A little girl he could spoil, or a little boy who'd want to be just like his daddy. I think Dean would have been a wonderful father if he'd ever gotten the chance."_

_Sam shakes his head and chokes on a sob, but it's true, it's all true. _

"_But instead he has you – a bratty little brother who's supposed to look up to him and be loyal to him but you're not, are you, Sammy? You jumped at the first chance you got to run off to school and leave him in the dust."_

"_No, no!" Sam's muttering to himself now, no, no, no, over and over again but she ignores him._

"_And then you ditched him again; for the first demon whore who fluttered her eyes at you, and now you expect him to help you pick up the pieces of the war that you started?"_

"_I didn't know," Sam pleads, voice wavering and tears streaming down his face. "I didn't know what Ruby was gonna do. Dean knows that. He loves me."_

"_Does he? Or is he just stuck with you?"_

"_No, no, no – "_

"_Doomed to a life of pain and fear and sadness because he's got you fixed to him like a leach, sucking away everything that's good and pure and – "_

"Sam!"

Dean's voice rings out sharply and Sam snaps back to himself quickly and harshly; losing his balance for a second and nearly falling into the tub. One arm flails out helplessly as he attempts to stay upright, and his elbow smacks into the toilet tank.

"Ow, shit," he mutters.

"Are you okay?"

Sam swears again and rubs at his elbow as little ticklish jolts shoot up and down his arm. For a moment the lights are too bright and Sam blinks a few times rapidly, trying to make his eyes focus on white bathroom walls instead of the steel gray ones in his head. There are little dots of dark blue in the shape of the lamp that he can seem to blink out of his eyes.

"Sam?" Dean's voice has an edge of panic to it now. "Sam, please."

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam says quietly. "Just banged my elbow, I'm okay."

"You were yelling. Something about 'no', and 'Mom'."

_Damn it._

Sam sighs and pushes himself toward the sink so he can stare at his expression in the mirror. His eyes are worn and tired looking and there are purplish bags underneath them that are making him look a lot older than he is. He _feels_ a lot older than he is, and not at all in a good way. Anyone else in his situation would just suck it up and go make up with their brother, _partner_, but there's so much between them and there's so much other shit swirling around in Sam's head that he doesn't even know where he would _start_ fixing things with Dean. At this point it feels like it's almost not even worth trying. It feels like there's no way they're gonna get past it anyway, no matter how much they talk and cry and scream at each other. Sam closes his eyes after a minute – his reflection is so ugly right now and it barely even looks like the face he remembers, and it _hurts_ to think about all the things that have caused the pain behind his dull eyes. It's not _fair_, damn it. He's a good person! Or at least he used to be. And so is Dean. They don't deserve the lot they got in life and Sam is so faded and tired and broken down after all the crap the last few years have dumped on him.

"Sam, c'mon," Dean says. His voice sounds muffled now and Sam thinks maybe he's leaning his forehead against the door.

Sam heaves another heavy sigh. "I asked you to give me a minute, man, can you just – do that? Please?"

"I _was_ giving you a minute," Dean answers. "And then you started shouting and now I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

"Dean, I can't … I can't do this right now." Sam opens his eyes again, and now he can't look away from his own reflection in the ornate mirror. He hates what he sees so much he actually feels nauseous. He is so damn _worthless_. Makes him wish that one of these times the demons that come for him will just finish him off already, so he can stop hurting everyone. So he can stop hurting Dean.

"Sammy …"

Dean pauses, and Sam can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose like he does when he's frustrated. Then there's a shuffling noise that sounds like Dean sliding down to the floor and a soft thud that Sam's pretty sure is Dean's head against the wood of the door.

"I'm not good at all this talking shit, you know that," Dean continues quietly. "But I'm trying here, man, I'm really … trying. But this isn't gonna work if you don't at least meet me halfway."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. He'd like more than anything to turn time back a few years, before Dean's deal and Ruby and the blood and the apocalypse so that it could be the way it used to be, when things were so _good_ between him and Dean. But they can't just forget everything that's happened. Sam honestly can't see how talking about it will make anything better. It won't take away what he's done; all the ways he's hurt Dean. Mom was right – Dean does deserve a better little brother than Sam's ever been. It's making Sam feel physically sick.

"Sammy, please." Dean mutters. "Just open the door? You're kinda freaking me out."

"Dean, I'm fine!" Sam snaps, clenching the edge of the sink so tight his fingers are cramping. "God, you're stubborn."

"Oh, excuse me for caring about you!" Dean cries sarcastically. "Alright, you know what? That's it. You've got about thirty seconds to get out here or I'm kicking the fuckin' door down."

"What? Fuck, Dean – "

"I am so serious," Dean barks in a dangerous voice. "I'm done playing games and I'm done dancing around this and pretending our issues don't exist. In case it's slipped your mind, it's on us to save the entire god damn world!"

Oh, that is fuckin' _enough_. Sam wrenches the door open, finding himself face to face with a snarling Dean.

"Gee, thanks for reminding me." Sam shoves roughly at Dean's shoulders so he can push past him into the room. "I'd completely forgotten! Man, if I didn't have you? I probably wouldn't even remember that the whole fucking thing is my fault!"

Dean doesn't say anything for a minute – the furious retort Sam was expecting doesn't come. Instead Dean takes a deep breath and when he speaks his voice is small and exhausted.

"I … I'm sorry. That wasn't – I don't want to fight, okay? I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

Dean sounds so solemn and sincere that all of Sam's anger just melts away like it was never even there in the first place. It's been such a crappy couple of days that Sam would kinda like to stay mad for a while, just burn out some of that aggression he can never seem to get rid of. But he can't, not when Dean's voice goes all soft like that. He flops down heavily onto the bed, leaning against the headboard.

"Forget it." Sam looks up and offers his brother a small smile.

Dean hesitates for just a moment, and then moves to sit beside Sam on the bed.

"Look, about what you said, I – I know that you're trying," Sam says softly. "And for the record, I know I'm being an ass."

Dean huffs a light laugh. "I wasn't gonna say anything."

"I was thinking about Mom," Sam continues, staring blankly at his hands. "About the stuff she said. Or, the stuff I imagined her saying."

Dean nods. "I figured. It sounded like you were having a vision or a nightmare or something. I was worried."

Sam chews on his bottom lip and pulls his legs up into his chest. A few minutes ago he'd been feeling tired and beaten down and a hundred years old, and now he feels about six or seven again. Lost and alone and vulnerable. And it's so not helping that Dean's staring at him with this protective, concerned look all over his face. Like when Sam would have a bad day at school, and he'd come home and Dean would get all worked up and threaten to kick every single bully's ass, and then make Sam feel better by telling him people were just jealous because Sam had a cool big brother with an awesome car.

"She says that I don't deserve you," Sam mutters, eyes suddenly burning. "That you've spent your whole life sacrificing everything for me and all I ever do in return is let you down."

"Sam …"

"Is it – I mean, is that … true?" Sam's voice wavers, and he loathes every bone in his body for it. It's not fair of him to make Dean answer that question, but he really needs to know. "Is she right?"

Sam's pretty sure he's never felt this insecure in his whole life, but Dean's eyebrows fold into a frown and then he's shifting closer and wrapping his arms around Sam's shoulders; pulling Sam's body into his chest.

"Of course not," he murmurs, kissing the top of Sam's head. "It's not even a little bit true. God, how can you not know that?"

Sam relaxes a little and sighs into Dean's neck. "It's just – I mean with Ruby and everything – you were so mad at me, for such a long time. I didn't think you'd ever forgive me."

"I wasn't mad."

Sam snorts. "Yes you were."

"I – okay, yes I was, really mad," Dean admits, smoothing his palm up and down Sam's arm. "But you need to know that wasn't the only thing. I … I was scared, Sammy. Scared of what you were turning into, scared that you were slipping away from me. I was so terrified of losing you, because … because I have no idea how to do this without you."

Sam's chest tightens up painfully as Dean presses another kiss into his hair.

"I'm not used to being scared like that," Dean whispers.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers back.

"I know you are." Dean hugs Sam a little bit tighter. "You know, the last time we had to lock you up, Bobby said something to me. He told me not to be Dad. He said that – that the reason you and Dad never got along was because it was easier for him to push you away than to try and get through to you."

Sam nods.

"I'm not gonna do that. You're a little brother, it's sorta in the job description that you're not always … easy. But I never want to be the kind of person that gives up on you just because you made a few mistakes. Doesn't matter what you've done, I am _never_ gonna give up on you, okay?"

Sam slides his hand up Dean's chest and concentrates on the gentle thump of the heartbeat under his palm. There are about a million things Sam would love to say to that, but his throat is constricted and clearly talking isn't in the cards right now. So he just shifts his weight a little further into Dean's body and takes a few shaky breaths. Dean's skin smells like soap and leather; like _home_, and the circle of arms around Sam's shoulders makes him feel safer and more loved than he has in a really, really long time.

"I know I haven't always been the best brother in the world," Dean says after a few long minutes of silence. "I haven't always been there for you when you needed me."

"Dean, I … this isn't your fault, none of it. This is all on me."

"Yeah, well still. We're a team, Sam. Anything we go though, we go through together. That's the way we work. I think maybe I've been forgettin' that a little lately."

Sam shakes his head helplessly, his forehead rubbing against the soft skin on Dean's neck. Dean is so _warm_ against him; heat radiating off his chest and soaking into Sam's. It's kind of ridiculously comforting. Sam's spent such a long time hating himself for everything he did, how badly he messed up, so it feels really, really good to know that Dean doesn't hate him too.

"I just – I screwed everything up, Dean, I ... and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do to fix it."

Dean blows a long breath out through his nose, and the puff of air tickles Sam's forehead.

"I don't either," he says quietly, almost hesitantly. "I really wish I did. Wish I could have all the answers."

Sam manages a small smile. "That'd be awesome."

"Definitely," Dean chuckles. "But we'll figure it out anyway."

"I guess. Or die trying," Sam mutters bitterly.

"Alright, that's another thing. You – this has to stop."

"What does?"

"You blaming yourself for everything, being so mad all the time," Dean replies gently. "It's not helping anything and it's seriously doing a number on you."

"Dean, it's not – " Sam begins in protest.

"Yeah, it is," Dean cuts in. "You can't hide from me. You've got dark circles under your eyes, I can't even remember the last time you looked at yourself in a mirror, and god, I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore. Please, you need to start trying to forgive yourself."

Sam sighs shakily. There's a dull ache settled in the middle of his chest that's been there for a really, really long time, but suddenly it's flaring up again like a fresh burn. Like something hot and searing lodged in his esophagus; it's sort of hard to breathe around it. He's been beating himself up pretty much constantly for the last year, but he never realized Dean noticed. That one hit a little too close to home.

He sniffs and chokes back a sob. "How? How am I supposed to forgive myself after everything I did?"

"I don't really think I can answer that for you," Dean says, smoothing his hand down Sam's back. "If it helps at all, I … I forgive you."

"You do?"

"'Course I do. You and me, we're – I mean, you're … everything." Dean sighs again and laughs shakily. "I forgave you a long time ago."

Sam pulls back a little so he can see Dean's eyes. "I'm everything?"

Dean grins sheepishly. "Yeah. Sorry, I know that was stupid and mushy."

"Not stupid." Sam smiles back. "Just, you don't usually say things like that."

"You're all I've got. But it's more than that." Dean reaches a hand up and brushes his fingertips gently against Sam's cheek. "I wouldn't change it."

Sam can't help himself. He leans down and brushes his lips lightly against Dean's, just back and forth a few times so that his skin heats up and tingles. "I wouldn't either. You freakin' pansy," Sam adds, smiling playfully.

"Yeah, I know." Dean chuckles again and rolls his eyes at himself. "Guess you just bring it out in me."

Sam spends the next few minutes just staring into Dean's big, round eyes. He takes in the moss-green irises and tries to convince himself that the cold, loathing eyes he saw in his mind were just that – in his mind. They _weren't _Dean. Dean would never, ever look at Sam with so much hatred in his eyes. Sam feels terrible for ever thinking he would, even for a second and even in a withdrawal-induced hallucination.

"What're you looking at it?" Dean asks, a smile teasing his mouth.

Sam shrugs. "Just you. I … this is probably gonna piss you off, but … in the last few months it's kinda started to feel like maybe …"

"Maybe what?" Dean prods gently.

"Maybe things with us could never be good again. You've been different. Like maybe you didn't feel the same way about me anymore."

Dean's brow furrows and his eyes fill with sadness. "You thought I didn't … God, Sammy, I – things've just been shitty lately, you know? I – I don't know how to be the same when we've got all this crap to deal with all the time. But I still … I mean, you gotta know that I'll always …"

Dean swallows and his eyes dart around a few times. He looks a little helpless and like he isn't sure how to voice what he wants to say, so Sam takes pity on him and nods.

"Okay. Me too."

He kisses Dean's lips lightly and then leans back down to rest his head back on Dean's chest.

"It's … really hard for me to listen to you in there. The whole withdrawal thing." Dean says shakily, running his fingers through Sam's hair.

"What do I do?" Sam asks quietly.

"You don't remember?"

"It's kinda fuzzy. I'm not … I'm not sure what was real and what I imagined."

"Mostly you just scream for me to help you. And I really wish I could. God, Sam, it's … you have no idea how much it hurts to hear you sound so scared, to listen to you begging me to save you."

Sam's eyes sting as he tries to blink back tears. He's the one who spent hours detoxing, and it was draining and terrifying and _painful_, but Dean's the one this hurts more. And Sam _hates_ hurting Dean.

"Cas and Bobby, they just keep reminding me that you aren't really hurt or whatever, that's just a hallucination, you know? That it's not real." Dean continues, arms squeezing Sam a little tighter. "But the fear that I can hear in your voice, the terror … that _is_ real."

"Yeah," Sam agrees softly, a little bit unsure of what else to say. "But it's over now, so."

"Don't do that to me again. I don't wanna have to – I mean, I can't. Can't go through this again."

"I won't," Sam whispers, feeling a hundred feet lower than dirt. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"No, don't – that isn't what I meant. You don't need to be sorry, I know it wasn't your fault. But if something like this happens again, you need to talk to me, okay? Tell me before it gets to the point where you can't control it, so I can get you somewhere safe."

Sam sighs heavily, hating that Dean's still blaming himself. "Dean …"

"Sam, it's my job to keep you safe. How am I supposed to do that if you won't let me?"

Dean sounds annoyed again and he pulls his arms back a little. Alright, so the moment's over. That sure didn't last long. Sam takes the opportunity to sit up and turn away from his brother, rolling his eyes at himself for daring to hope the fight was over. Seems like it's never over; no matter how close they get to fixing things, there's always something else to yell at each other about. Sometimes Sam's amazed that they haven't broken yet.

"I don't know what you want from me," Sam mutters, leaning forward a little so he can drop his face exhaustedly into his hands.

"I want you to let me in! Let me help you!" Dean cries

"And what about me, Dean?" Sam explodes, his temper flaring again as he stands up and whips around to face Dean. "What about all the times I wanted to be there for you and you wouldn't let me? What about when you came back from Hell and I begged you, _begged you_ to let me help you? And you just pushed me away."

Dean stares for a moment, hard and furious, but Sam squares his shoulders and holds his gaze. But then Dean's expression crumbles a little and the anger disappears from his face.

"Yeah, I – you're right. I did do that," he says in a small, apologetic voice. "And you know what, this shouldn't just be me calling all the shots here. If you wanna talk about … that … then, that's something we can do."

"I – what?"

"Me going to Hell, it …" Dean takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his short hair. "I think it was a lot harder on you than I realized. And when I got back, I was … messed up. To put it lightly. Thirty years of torture, Sammy, I – it broke me. I was so broken and smashed up inside, and I didn't think I was ever gonna feel whole again."

"Dean, it's – "

"No, don't tell me its okay," Dean interrupts, sitting back down onto the bed and slumping his shoulders. "It's not okay, Sam, cause I was so wrapped up in my own crap I never bothered to notice that you were hurting too. I pushed you away because I thought if you knew what I'd done down there you'd never forgive me, you know? I thought you'd hate me as much as I hated myself, and I couldn't have handled seeing that look on your face."

"I couldn't ever hate you." Sam's words are choked and breathy as a wave of emotion constricts his throat.

"I know, just, let me finish, okay?"

Sam nods.

"I pushed you away on purpose. But when I did that I just ended up pushing you right to … her. I didn't see that then, but I do now."

_Damn_. Sam had been wondering how long it'd be before they got to Ruby. He figured with Dean's whole 'talking everything out' plan that they'd get to her eventually, but he's still not ready for it. He knows exactly what happened with her; why he did what he did and why she was so easily able to manipulate him; but Sam's not sure that Dean'll like the answers if he asks those questions.

"You don't ever stop, do you?" Sam asks, digging his fingertips into his eyelids.

"Stop what?"

"Trying to take the blame for everything! I drank demon blood, _I_ started all this, not you!"

"I know that, all I'm trying to say is that I understand! I understand why you trusted her, why you listened to her, because if our situations were reversed I probably would have listened to her too!"

That's a nice thought, but Sam's pretty sure Dean _doesn't_ understand. Oh sure, he knows that Sam wanted to kill Lilith and that Ruby saved his life. But it was more than that, so much more. Sam would never have trusted a demon if he hadn't been so broken from the loss of the person he loves. It still hurts to think about it, even all these years later it still makes Sam's chest clench and his head dizzy just remembering how horrible it had been without Dean by his side. And as much as Dean says he wants Sam to be honest, Sam's pretty sure Dean doesn't actually want to know how much he hurt his little brother by making the deal.

"What I did – Ruby, the blood, all of it – you can't take the blame for it, Dean," Sam begins, trying to keep his voice steady. "I get what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it, I really do. Because you're right, the thing with Ruby, losing you was a big part of it. I was lost and devastated and she was there. And she lied to me and I believed her because I didn't have anything else." Sam rubs at his eyes again and heaves another deep sigh. "But it was still _my_ mistake. I know the big brother in you wants to make it your fault so it doesn't have to be mine, but you don't have to do that."

"Yes I do, because you won't!" Dean insists.

"What?"

"You refuse to give yourself a break! Of course I'm not trying to say it was all my fault, but it wasn't all your fault either! Nobody does something like what you did without having a mile-long list of damn good reasons!" Dean's voice catches and he coughs to cover it. "You've just been so _different_ these last few months, and I know it's because of how much you're beating yourself up. So I just thought that if you let me take some of the blame, then it wouldn't be all on you and you could try to start forgiving yourself!"

"It doesn't work like that, Dean," Sam grinds out roughly.

Dean pushes up onto his knees on the bed and shuffles across it toward Sam. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes glassy in desperation, and then he reaches up tentatively and cups his hands around the back of Sam's neck.

"Look, I just – I know what it's like to hate yourself, okay? I know what it's like to walk around with all that weight on your shoulders, because a lot of the time I feel the exact same way."

Sam closes his eyes against the burning behind them, and Dean leans in a little further to rest his forehead against Sam's.

"It sucks. It's exhausting and it wears on you and it pushes you into this dark, crappy place that you feel like you won't ever be able to climb out of. But you don't have to do this all on your own. You and me, we're a team, remember?" Dean's fingers knead a little into the top few notches of Sam's spine. "So just … let me carry some of that weight for you. Let me help you."

"I don't need help," Sam whispers shakily.

"Tough!" Dean snaps. "That's my job, Sam! I'm your big brother!"

"Yeah? Well you know what? Sometimes I fucking wish you weren't!"

_Oh god_. Half a second before the words are even out of Sam's mouth, he's wishing he could take them back. Dean bristles and pulls his arms off Sam's shoulders. His face is … blank, completely. His mouth is hanging open just a little and his eyes are wide but there's absolutely nothing behind them. He moves back enough to step around Sam and off the bed, slowly and fluidly, as if in some kind of trance and Sam would just love to punch himself in the face right now.

"Dean, I – I didn't … I'm …" Sam doesn't have any idea what to say. He didn't mean it, at _all_, but anything he says right now will probably end up sounding rehearsed and insincere. So, even as a few tears spill over the rims of his stinging eyes and his insides feel like someone split them open with a dull blade, all Sam can do is watch helplessly as Dean grabs the keys to the impala and walks out the door.


	10. Chapter 9

**I hope this shorter wait is much more to your liking! I worked my ass off all weekend on this bad boy cause I felt a little bad about leaving you with such an evil cliffhanger. Well, I laughed maniacally for a while first. I rubbed my hands together and stroked my pretend mustache and everything. But then later I felt bad. :)**

**(My friend electroxboosh made a beautiful banner for this story. Drop me a line if you'd like to see it****)**

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Dean has no idea how long he's been standing next to his car, staring blankly at the keys in his hand, but it's been a while. Ten minutes, minimum. Or maybe an hour. Time doesn't really seem important right now. Nor does the fact that the snow he's standing in is starting to melt though his shoes; his breath turning to ice on his lips and the inside of his nose feels uncomfortably frozen. It doesn't matter that he didn't stop to grab his jacket when he left the room and the black, cotton, t-shirt he's wearing right now wasn't exactly meant for February in Middle America. The only thing that matters is the one thing he can't have – a little brother who didn't wish he wasn't one.

Dean has never, ever wished that Sam wasn't his brother. When they were teenagers and they realized how they felt about each other, Dean was well aware of how much easier it would be if they were just two random guys, because then they could be together and not have to worry quite so much about what the world would think. But he still didn't wish Sam wasn't his brother. When Sam left for Stanford, he took most of Dean's heart with him and left a giant, unmendable hole in Dean's chest that sometimes he still thinks hasn't quite healed. But he still didn't wish Sam wasn't his brother. Through Sam's psychic powers that scared Dean right to his core; through Hell and back, and Ruby, and the demon blood addiction; through breaking the final seal and starting the freakin' apocalypse and essentially sentencing six billion people to their deaths; through every time Sam's screwed up and every minute Dean's spent cleaning up after him, he never, even for one millisecond, wished that Sam wasn't his little brother.

And more than that – he _forgave_ Sam for all those things. Forgave him practically the same moment that they happened, because that's what brothers do. And now he's standing in the cold and the snow outside a hotel in Nebraska and his head is spinning so hard it's making him queasy. His chest is throbbing like heartburn, only a thousand times worse. Like his heart is actually breaking. Like there's a knife right through his sternum, and Sam's twisting it. Slowly. Dean's given everything, everything. He's devoted himself completely to Sam for twenty-six years. And Sam … Sam wishes Dean wasn't his brother. Dean can't – his brain doesn't even know how to process that. It's like trying to understand someone who's speaking a language that you don't. Dean's at a complete loss. He should just get in his car and drive away, clear his head, but his feet seem to be cemented to the ground. And the fog swirling around in his head probably wouldn't let him even figure out how to start the ignition anyway.

There's a creak that sounds like door hinges, and then the crunch of slow, hesitant footsteps in the snow.

"Hey Dean," Sam's voice says quietly, sadly.

Dean blinks a few times.

"I … god, I'm … so sorry," Sam mumbles. "I didn't mean it. I was mad and, it, I say stupid things when I'm mad sometimes."

Dean manages to nod, and then twists his head around a little to look at his brother. _His brother_. God, it hurts to even think those words right now. Sam reaches his hand out tentatively like he's going to touch Dean's arm, but then changes his mind and pulls back, running his fingers through his hair instead.

"Look, if you – need to take some time, go for a drive or something, that's okay. Just, please, promise me that you'll come back?"

Dean nods again. "Yeah, I – okay." His voice sounds thin and scratchy, like he hasn't used it in a long time. Maybe he's been standing out here longer than he thought.

Sam reaches out again and his fingers brush lightly against Dean's shoulder. The touch is soft and apologetic.

"I'm really sorry," he whispers, and then turns around and makes his way back inside.

For another few minutes, Dean just blinks and breathes and stares at the blue, wooden door. It's cracked in a few places, probably from the cold, but the paint job looks new. And the plated, silver numbers are definitely antique, but they're clean and shiny and completely rust-free. This is a _really_ nice place, and suddenly Dean feels unbelievably stupid for bringing them here. This place is lace and throw pillows and ornate picture frames, and Dean is leather and ripped jeans and Metallica. He doesn't belong here, neither of them do. And he really, really doesn't belong _here_, specifically where he's standing right at this moment. Not when Sam's on the other side of that blue door.

And he said he wouldn't leave. _Damn it_. Not even half an hour ago, he sat with Sam on that ridiculous, frilly bed and promised that they'd stick together no matter how bad things got. He can't break it, because a promise to Sam _means_ something. It kinda means everything, actually. And Sam _does_ say stupid things when he's mad sometimes; the kid's got a temper, always has, and he's always sorry about it later. Dean's fist is gripping his car keys so tightly that they're cutting into his palm, but he doesn't want them anymore. He doesn't want to drive away anymore; to find a smoky bar with cheap liquor and even cheaper women so he can drink and gamble and flirt until his problems disappear. It never works anyway. No, what he wants now is to go back in there and hear Sam say that he didn't mean it a few more hundred times. Maybe if he says it enough, Dean'll believe him.

When Dean steps back into the room, Sam's sitting on the bed, cross-legged. He's still in the sweats he was wearing last night, and the way he's just staring down at his hands, hair falling into his eyes, makes him look like such a little boy that Dean's anger just melts away. His brother looks so sad and helpless and so completely out of place in this pristine room, almost like he's lost. It still hurts like a bitch to play those words over in his head, but Dean can't bring himself to be mad at this Sam. This is the Sam that needs his big brother to make everything better.

Sam looks up at the sound of the door clicking closed, and Dean gives him a small smile.

"I though you were gonna …" Sam trails off and shifts his gaze back down to his hands.

"Me too. Changed my mind."

Sam pulls his knees up into his chest and wraps his arms around them. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, still not looking at Dean.

"So you said." Dean walks slowly over to the bed and, after hesitating for a moment, he sits down beside Sam and cups a hand over the back of Sam's neck.

Sam just sniffs and shakes his head a little.

"You didn't mean it?" Dean asks softly.

"No. Not at all, Dean, I swear." Sam's demeanor changes instantly; he's grabbing at the collar on Dean's shirt now, scooting closer and pulling desperately like he's trying to climb into Dean's lap. "God, I – I don't know why I said that, I can't believe I said that! I don't know where it even came from, it was like I didn't hear myself say it until after it was already out there and then I couldn't take it back, but if I could, Dean you have to know I don't feel that way, I never did, not for a second – "

"Whoa, hey! Okay, it's – shh. Okay. It's okay Sammy." Dean pulls the big body into his own and holds on tight.

"I'm so sorry," Sam mumbles pitifully into Dean's neck.

"Okay. I believe you. Fuck, you're shaking." Dean huffs a laugh and rubs Sam's back.

"I thought you might not come back."

"I'll always come back."

For a few minutes, Dean just rubs Sam's back and hugs him tightly, and Sam relaxes and leans heavily against Dean's body.

"That's gotta be the worst thing I've ever said to you." Sam's voice is just a whisper of breath against Dean's skin.

"Can you tell me what you did mean?" Dean asks gently after a long moment.

"Can I what?" Sam pulls back a bit so he can look in Dean's eyes.

"You didn't just say it for no reason," Dean clarifies. "You must've meant something."

Sam sighs and looks away again. "I … I didn't mean that I wish you weren't my brother, I meant that I wish you wouldn't always treat me like the little brother."

Dean nods. "Oh. Okay. I guess that's fair."

"I still shouldn't've said it. I love my big brother," Sam murmurs brushing the pad of his thumb over Dean's bottom lip.

"I know you do, kiddo." Dean smiles and ruffles Sam's hair like he used to when they were young enough that touching Sam still only meant one thing.

"You haven't called me that in a long time," Sam comments, smiling back.

Dean shrugs. "You haven't seemed like a kid to me in a long time."

"I do right now?"

"Yeah, kinda." Dean rubs his knuckles against Sam's knee. "Whenever you're upset, it's like you're ten years old again to me. Can't help it."

Sam laughs a little. "I bet you like that."

Dean doesn't speak for a moment. It would probably be easier to just not say anything at all, but then again he would be pissed to know that Sam was having thoughts like this and not saying anything. The whole point of this is for them to start being honest with each other and saying all those things that normally they'd keep inside. Dean has absolutely no idea what's gotten into him; normally he'd be the one running for the hills at the smallest sign of anything so _real_, but maybe he's just had enough. Enough of the lies and the pretending. Things are usually so much better when he just bites the bullet and tells Sam the truth.

"I just miss how you used to be, you know?" Dean says, blowing a strong breath out through his mouth. "You used to look at me like I hung the freakin' moon. Like I was perfect. And now …"

"And now I love you even more because I know you aren't."

Dean's chest tightens at Sam's words. It's ridiculous, how Sam's somehow always able to say things like that and make Dean feel amazing and heartbroken all at the same time. Little emotional zingers that really wouldn't mean much to anyone else, but to Dean it's like they flay him open and leave him exposed and totally at Sam's mercy. Dean doesn't even know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. He pretends Sam didn't speak and he carries on with the point he'd been trying to make.

"I've always been too hard on you," he says quietly, standing up and taking a few steps away because he's pretty sure he won't get through this if he's looking at Sam. "I pushed you to be better, better at hunting and fighting and whatever else, but at the same time, I … I was the one holding you back."

"What do you mean?"

Sam's voice is small and cautious, and Dean can tell if he doesn't word this carefully, Sam'll start yelling about Dean always trying to take the blame for everything again. Which, alright, maybe he does do that. But Sam's the little brother, that's the way it's supposed to work! That's how Dean sees it, anyway. Sam clearly doesn't agree.

"You were this sweet, open, trusting little thing," Dean says. "And I loved that about you so much but it _scared_ me because it made you an easy target. I wanted to change you and keep you the same all at once, and I get now what that must've done to you."

"Where is this coming from?" Sam asks.

"What you said, about wishing I wouldn't always treat you like the little brother." Dean scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. "I think I'm starting to understand why it bugs you so much. It's like I was always on your case about growing up and being tough and everything, but I still treated you like a kid. That … I mean, I can see why that would be, frustrating."

Sam doesn't say anything but Dean can almost hear his face twisting into a frown.

"And you're a good hunter, Sam, you are. You're ruthless and driven and everything else Dad wanted us to be, and I am so proud of you, I really am, it's just … sometimes I miss the Sam who, I don't know, looked up to me and came to me when he was scared and knew that I'd keep him safe. I miss the Sam who depended on me to take care of him."

"Dean … I know things are different now, but I still do all those things," Sam begins tentatively. "You're my big brother, I will always look up to you. Maybe … maybe we just don't say it anymore."

Dean turns back around. "Meaning what?"

"Okay, like, when we were kids and I'd get scared, we'd make a fort out of sheets and chairs and then we'd hide in there together and you'd tell me that you'd always be there to protect me. And now, when something freaks me out I just don't feel the need to talk about it anymore, but I still feel better if you're there with me." Sam offers Dean a small smile. "You act like there's only one way to need somebody. You're right, I don't need you to cook me dinner and protect me from thunder storms like I did when I was five, but that doesn't mean I don't need you at all."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

It's a nice thought, but the truth is that he needs Sam way more than Sam needs him. He always has. Needs him like he needs oxygen.

"And you still do take care of me, all the time, just in a different way."

"What, you mean like getting you off?" Dean scoffs.

"No – " Sam begins, and then pauses, grinning and laughing a little. "Well okay, yes. Definitely yes. And you do that job really, really well."

Dean laughs back. "I am pretty awesome in bed."

"Yeah. You are. But it's more than that, man, it's like … when we're together you really make me feel, loved. Cherished, even. As dumb as I'm sure that sounds."

Dean shrugs. "It smells a bit like estrogen, but I get what you mean."

Sam smiles and shakes his head in amusement. "But you take care of me like a big brother too. Like today. You drove for an extra couple of hours just because you thought I needed the rest. What do you call that if not taking care of me? You shrug things like that off like they aren't important, but they _are_, Dean. And I notice them, even if I don't say anything."

Dean nods a little but he doesn't speak. Sam _did_ need the rest, so Dean doesn't really see how what he did is anything to get excited about.

"Aright, you need another example?" Sam stands up quickly and faces Dean. "How about when we get back from a hunt that went bad, or we had a close call or something, and I'm too exhausted and strung out to do anything but collapse onto the bed, and you probably are too, but you don't. First you always take my shoes off, and you get me _under_ the blankets, and you always take the time to check the salt lines."

"C'mon, Sam, checking the salt lines is – " Dean begins in protest, only to be cut off.

"Your _job_, yeah, I know it is. But the rest of it isn't! And then you pull me into you and let us fall asleep with your arms around me. And in the morning, even though we've moved around in the night your arms are always still around me, and that … Dean, to me, that's you _showing_ me that you'll always keep me safe." Sam's eyes have gone wide and glassy with emotion. "You don't say it in so many words anymore but you still _say_ it. And I still hear it."

Dean's throat constricts again. "I … that's a whole lotta mush all in one place, Sammy."

Sam smiles again and bites his lip, now a little sheepish. "Yeah, I know. Guess you just bring it out in me," he quips, repeating Dean's earlier words. "But I meant it. I need you all the time, Dean. God, when you were in – when you were gone, I, I went crazy. I … well, you know. What I did."

Sam's expression went from adorably bashful to self-loathing so fast that Dean has to blink a few times before he registers that the mood in the room has changed again. Then he's over in front of Sam before he even realizes he's moved, brushing bangs out of Sam's sad eyes and cupping his palm against Sam's cheek. Sam leans into the touch a little and closes his eyes.

"It's okay," Dean says softly. "For the millionth time, it's okay. And hey, I meant what I said before. Ruby took advantage of you when you were weak and vulnerable and lonely, and I bet if our places had been switched I would've trusted her too. It kinda ended up turning into a fight earlier, but I really do understand why you did what you did."

"No you don't," Sam whispers.

"C'mon, Sam, yeah I do."

"No, actually, you don't!" Sam shouts, shoving at Dean's shoulders to put some distance between them. "You don't get it at all, Dean, because in your head it's all about me being alone and lost without you! You're acting like you're all understanding, but really? I know what you really think is that I listened to Ruby because I'm some stupid kid that doesn't know how to survive without somebody telling me what to do!"

"What? I never said – "

"It was you!" Sam snaps. "It was about you, Dean, all of it! You left me with nothing, man, absolutely nothing! You were the only real thing I've ever had in this world and you were just gone!"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that, Sam!" Dean shoots back, furiously. "I was in _Hell_, in case that's managed to slip your mind!"

"But god, it was so much fucking more than that!" Sam just barrels on like Dean hadn't spoken. "It was the whole year before you died, that's what really did me in! Going to Hell was like, shit, it was like some big joke to you! Might as well eat a hundred cheeseburgers, cause I won't be needing this body for that much longer! Ha ha, I'm Dean Winchester and I'm a fuckin' riot! Well you know what? It wasn't funny to me, Dean! It was terrifying!"

"Well what the fuck did you want me to do?" Dean yells indignantly. "I didn't have any answers, Sammy! I couldn't fix it! Would you really have been happier if I'd spent the whole year wallowing in it?"

"I never needed you to have all the answers! I just …" Sam heaves a frustrated sigh. "I needed you to tell me it was okay to be scared, to tell me that you were scared too! I needed you to be _honest_ with me instead of playing your stupid, macho games! But no, you just decided that you were going to Hell, and that was it! You completely checked out on me, man!"

Dean stares, his jaw clenched painfully, but Sam's on a roll and when he gets like this Dean knows anything he says right now won't make a difference. So he doesn't say anything.

"Do you know I barely slept that whole year?" Sam continues loudly, now starting to twitch a little in anger. "I was up half the nights looking through every book and website I could find, and calling every contact of Dad's and Bobby's, trying to find a way to get you out of your deal! I was fighting tooth and nail to keep you alive, and you acted like you didn't even care that you were dying! ... Like you didn't even care that you were _leaving_ me."

Dean closes his eyes. It feels like all the air just got sucked out of the room on that last comment. Dean's chest is more than tight at this point, it feels _crushed_, like a boulder is pinning him to the ground. To the hard, _sharp_ ground. There it is, the one thing Sam's never vocalized before that finally makes Dean absolutely positive that now, he really does understand everything Sam did while they were apart. And after. It wasn't about Dean dying, it was about Dean _leaving_ Sam. It's a subtle distinction that Dean never made in his own head, but god … that one hurts. A lot. When Dean manages to open his eyes again, there are tears streaming down Sam's cheeks. Not just one or two, Sam's actually _crying_ like Dean hasn't seen him do since – well, since the night he went to Hell. Looks like maybe this is it – after a year of shouting and butting heads and almost-tears, maybe this is the moment when Sam finally breaks. Dean's across the room in half the time it takes to blink, grabbing at whatever bit of his brother he can reach first and yanking him into a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby boy," he whispers, squeezing the back of Sam's neck with one hand and rubbing up and down his back with the other. "I didn't mean to leave you. I never wanted to. And I _did_ care. I just – I don't know. Didn't want you to see how scared I was. Sounds stupid, now."

Sam lets out a choked sob and hunches over a little so he can cry into Dean's shoulder. His arms slide around Dean's ribcage and his hands grip desperately at big handfuls of Dean's shirt. For a few minutes, Dean just lets his little brother cry, lets him get it out. Years and years of pain and fear and anger, all built up and thrashing around inside, and Dean knows how it feels when that dam breaks. It feels like an F5 tornado inside your own head.

"Shh, you're okay," Dean soothes, kissing Sam's shoulder through his t-shirt. "I gotcha. Not leaving you ever again."

Sam nods against Dean's neck, managing to get "I know" out between shaky, hitched breaths. Another minute or so and then Sam's getting himself under control again, his breathing still labored but evening out a little as he calms down.

"Man, this – sorry," he breathes, sniffing and releasing his vice-grip on Dean's shirt.

"'S'ok, don't be sorry."

Sam pulls back just a little and wipes his eyes. "I must look ridiculous."

"Course you don't." Dean smiles and brushes the hair out of Sam's eyes and the wet tracks off of his cheeks. "Always beautiful to me, Sammy."

Sam huffs a laugh. "God, you're mushy today."

His voice is thick from the tears, and that's kind of heartbreaking but kind of adorable at the same time. Dean leans in again and kisses Sam's lips lightly, and then his cheek, ear, and temple.

"I have an idea," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. He moves over to the bed and grabs a handful of the sheets, yanking them up until just the end remains tucked under the mattress. He takes Sam's hand and pulls him down onto the bed, and then he crawls in beside him, then pulls the sheet over their heads and tucks it in behind the headboard. The result is something like a makeshift tent, with about a foot of space between the sheet and mattress for their heads and shoulders.

"Okay." Sam looks at him quizzically. "What're we doing?"

Dean makes himself comfy on his side, facing Sam, with one hand propping up his head. He reaches the other hand over to brush a strand of silky hair out of Sam's eyes. The thin white sheet doesn't block out all the light, but enough that a faint, orange glow radiates over Sam's caramel skin and makes his beautiful eyes look darker and bluer than usual.

"A fort made out of sheets to hide in," Dean smiles, setting his free hand on Sam's sternum. "Just like when we were kids."

Sam's eyes widen and he inhales simultaneously as realization flashes over his features and the corner of his mouth twitches like the beginnings of a smile. Then he inhales again, this time like he's about to say something, and then, for a moment or two, he's just quiet. His eyes flicker around the small, dimly lit cocoon Dean's created for them; he meets and then avoids Dean's gaze. Then he does the exact opposite of what Dean wanted or expected – he squints a little and his eyes fill with tears.

"No, Sam …" Dean mutters, pressing his hand a little more firmly down into Sam's chest. "Shit, that's not – this was supposed to make you happy, not make you cry again."

Sam shakes his head back and forth a few times, tossing more hair across his forehead, and then laughs a little, despite a few tears running down his cheeks and soaking into the fabric beneath his head.

"Just like when we were kids," he repeats softy. "Except when we were kids you could tell me everything would be okay and it was."

Dean swallows painfully over a lump in his throat. Sometimes, he misses those days like he'd miss an arm. "I know. I wish I could still tell you that. I really do."

Sam nods shortly, quickly, and scrunches his eyebrows together, clearly trying to hold back more tears.

"Hey," Dean whispers, brushing his thumb over Sam's bottom lip. _C'mon, Sam, talk to me, _he doesn't need to say.

But then Sam breaks again; lets out another sob and rolls his body into Dean's, his hands clinging to Dean's shirt again and his face buried into Dean's chest like he hasn't done since he was thirteen years old.

"Sammy," Dean sighs, sliding an arm underneath Sam's neck and wrapping the other one around Sam's back, squeezing tightly.

"What if we can't stop it?" Sam asks, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths and letting out moist ones on the collar of Dean's shirt, and Dean doesn't need to ask what 'it' is.

"Shh, I know," Dean soothes, rocking his baby brother a bit.

Dean's been asking himself that same question two or three times a day lately. He tries to just tackle it one day at a time like it were any other case, but it isn't; it's the fate of the entire word they're fighting for now, and sometimes it weighs on him like a slab of concrete. Honesty, though? Somehow, it makes him feel just a tiny bit better to know that it's weighing on Sam just as much, even though he definitely already knew that. If anything, it weighs on Sam _more_, because in Sam's mind, the whole damn apocalypse is his fault.

"We do what I did, what Zachariah showed me when he zapped me to the future," Dean says, quietly but surely, rubbing Sam's back. "We set up camps, and look for survivors, and we keep going until – until we can't anymore."

"And then millions of people die and it's all my fault," Sam whispers, choking out a few more sobs.

"Not your fault," Dean whispers back. He's really had enough of hearing Sam say that.

Sam's forehead rubs against Dean's collarbone as he nods. He gasps a little; probably uncontrollably as he tries to reign in his emotions. Dean really wishes he wouldn't bother; he wishes that if Sam needed to cry again he'd just do it, and just let Dean hold him and be the big brother he never gets to be anymore. But Sam doesn't seem to be managing to pull himself together this time. His shoulders are still shaking and his breath is still catching in his throat. It's already the third time today Sam's been crying in his arms, and the first two times Dean felt a little like he had no idea how to comfort the man who he barely recognizes as his baby brother anymore. But right now, for the first time in way too long, Dean knows exactly what to say.

"It's okay to be scared, Sammy," Dean murmurs into Sam's hair. "I'm scared too."


	11. Chapter 10

**I am SO sorry it took so long to get this up my lovelies! It's been finished for a good three weeks now but this site was broken and it wouldn't let me update! A thousand apologies.**

**For those wondering, there will be 2 more chapters.  
**

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The first thing Sam notices is how warm he is. And _comfy_, man, where ever he is right now, can he just stay here forever? Please? The next thing is that it smells good in here. It smells like … comfort? Wait, that's not a scent. It's … Dean. It smells like Dean. Sam's body catches up sluggishly with his half-awake brain and he opens his eyes, blinking slowly as his eyes struggle to focus. For a second the only thing he can see is black, but then the fog lifts a little more and Sam can sort of remember lying with his face smushed up against Dean's sternum. He doesn't remember falling asleep, he doesn't even remember being tired. He must've really just passed out. Sam shifts his head back on the pillow a little and sure enough, Dean's there smiling down at him.

"Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," Sam answers, voice scratchy from sleep. "How long was I out?"

Dean shrugs. "Not long. Maybe, half an hour?"

"And you just laid here with me the whole time?" Sam's as blown away as he always is when Dean does things like that.

"It wasn't that long," Dean repeats. "Besides, you were kinda clinging to me. Thought if I moved you might wake up."

Sam's cheeks burn. "Sorry."

"Don't be, dude, I was _really_ freakin' comfortable. This bed is awesome. I so can't wait to … well."

Dean trails off and scratches absently at a partially healed cut near his hairline. Then Dean rolls over onto his back, grabbing Sam's arm and pulling Sam with him. Sam ends up half on top of his brother, head tucked under Dean's chin.

"You feeling better now?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Sam mutters, face flushing again at the ridiculousness of a twenty-six year old man sobbing in his brother's arms.

"Good." Dean strokes his knuckles over Sam's hair. "I'm sorry I … pushed."

"You just weren't gonna stop until I had a meltdown, huh?" Sam asks, half smiling and half serious.

Dean laughs quietly. "Sorry. It wasn't, like, my plan all along or anything."

Sam shifts in closer, cheek rubbing the fabric of Dean's t-shirt.

"I think it'll be good, though, in the long run," Dean continues, palm now smoothing up and down Sam's arm. "I hate seeing you so upset, but at least it got you talking, you know? It's been killing me seeing you like this. You were hurting and I didn't know how to help you because you wouldn't talk to me."

Sam closes his eyes against a sudden sting of tears. _Oh for fuck's sake_, this is getting ridiculous. "Didn't want you to know how messed up I am."

"You think I'm not messed up too?" Dean asks, fingers squeezing Sam's forearm. "Damn it, Sam, don't you think if there was anyone in the world who'd understand what you're going through it'd be me?"

"I just …" Sam shudders in an attempt to keep his voice steady. He's _not _going to cry again. He won't. "You were right, before, about the whole mirror thing. I don't look at myself in the mirror anymore, if I can help it. I hate what I see there so much because all I can think of is how badly I've fucked everything up, how much I've let you down."

"How come you never told me that before?" Dean asks, his voice shaking a little too.

Sam shrugs.

"Sammy …" Dean whispers pleadingly.

"I don't know! I …" Sam sighs. "I just … I guess I wanted to handle this on my own. I kinda dug my own grave with this one, you know? Wasn't fair to drag you down with me."

"You wouldn't've been dragging me anywhere," Dean insists gently, tugging Sam up a little further so he can kiss his forehead and speak against his skin. "You're my baby brother, there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for you. Besides, I'm not the same person I used to be either. I mean, I … I tried to deal with … with Hell, on my own, and look how that worked out, right?"

Sam nods and tries to give Dean a slightly awkward hug; the best he can manage from this position.

"We waste so much energy lying to each other, pretending things are okay when they're not," Dean continues, carding his fingers through Sam's hair and stroking lightly.

Sam nods again, and shifts his body so he's lying on his stomach. He brings his arms up to cross over Dean's body and rests his chin on them so he can see Dean's face.

"You sound so well-adjusted."

Dean rolls his eyes and smiles. "Shut up. I'm just saying, you know – "

"Yeah, I know what you're saying," Sam interrupts, smiling back hesitantly. "And you're right, I … I hated lying to you all those months. That was the worst part, you know? So you're right, we …it's just a bit weird coming from you, that's all."

Dean sighs and considers Sam for a minute, running his fingers absently through Sam's hair. "We've tried to do this how we usually would. It isn't working. So maybe it's time we tried something new."

"So you think we should be all open and honest and shit?" Sam asks, grinning when Dean rolls his eyes.

"Well I don't want our freakin' cycles to sync up or anything," he jokes, cuffing Sam on the arm lightly. "But about the important things, yeah, I think we should."

"Were you ever like that with anyone else?"

"Nope. Just you, kiddo." Dean ruffles Sam's hair fondly. "The only time I was ever honest with a girl she ran screaming in the other direction."

"Cassie?" Sam asks quietly.

"Mhm."

"She believed you eventually," Sam says, shifting a little and laying his head back down on Dean's chest.

Dean snorts a laugh. "Yeah, once she needed our help. Not exactly the best way to treat someone you .. well, whatever it was that we were."

"I thought you loved her."

Dean exhales and Sam feels it tickle the top of his head.

"I didn't love her, Sam," he says heavily. "I think maybe I wanted to, but … she was the first person I was with, you know, after you left. And she's the only other person that meant more than sex to me. She's great but I think she was just a replacement for what I really wanted. I tried to fake it with her because I couldn't have you."

That hurts Sam's chest a little. He kisses the soft fabric just above Dean's heart. Over his covered tattoo.

"You have me now," he whispers.

"I know." Dean hugs Sam a little tighter for a second and then releases him. "Hey, can we sit up for a minute? My legs are falling asleep and I wanna talk to you about something."

"Sure," Sam answers, heaving himself off Dean and then getting comfy leaning against the headboard. "Am I in trouble again?"

Dean chuckles and mirrors Sam's position next to him. "No, punk. Just something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Okay. Shoot."

"Do you remember a few months back, that convention Chuck had?"

Sam barks a laugh.

"Are you kidding?" he cries. "All those freaks runnin' around pretending to be us? Definitely not something I'm gonna forget anytime soon."

"Yeah." Dean chuckles again and shakes his head. "They_ were_ freaks, man. But right before we left, you were off threatening Chuck and I was talking with those two guys that helped us, remember? And they … I dunno, they said some shit to me that kinda made me look at our lives in a different way."

Sam nods and waits for Dean to continue.

"They said something about how they fixed copiers for a living or something shitty like that, and that they … they were actually jealous of us. Cause we've got a brother who'd die for us. Cause we get to wake up every day and save the world."

"We … yeah, I guess we do," Sam agrees cautiously, unsure of where Dean's going with this.

"And on one hand, they don't know anything about … I mean, they only know up to me dying. So they don't know … what's goin' on now. But still. I don't wanna sound like a sap or something here, but they kinda had a point, you know?" Dean scratches at the back of his neck like he always does when he's a little uncomfortable. "I know I go on about all this apocalypse crap, how much it all sucks, but at the end of the day, we do save people, right?"

Sam nods again, more fervently this time. "Yeah. We do. All the time"

"I get to spend all day, every day, makin' a difference in the world. How many people can say that? But it's … it's more than just that. I …" Dean pauses; steeling his gaze like he's trying to force the words out of his mouth. "I get to spend my life with you. My little brother, my best friend, the person I … well. When everything's said'n'done, maybe that's not really so bad."

Dean stalls again and takes a deep breath before he continues. "If we had some normal apple-pie childhood, then we probably wouldn't be … what we are. We'd probably just be brothers. Who knows if we'd even hang out together. So yeah our lives are shitty sometimes but maybe … I dunno, maybe it's worth it."

Dean won't look at him; he's staring stubbornly straight ahead because they both know that's probably the most romantic thing Dean's ever said to him. Ever. Dean doesn't do hearts and flowers and Sinatra songs, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love Sam; he just rarely puts it out there so willingly. Usually he prefers to keep an unspoken agreement about what they mean to each other, murmuring words of love and forever when they're in the throes of passion but the rest of the time this thing between them is just sort of something they both understand completely but never really talk about. At least not in the context of Dean being ultimately grateful to their whole crappy existence because it led them to each other.

"I … wow." Sam can't keep his voice from sounding awestruck, but he wants to choose his next words carefully.

Dean laughs quietly, reading Sam's mind. "S'okay, just say it. I promise I won't hit you or anything."

Sam smiles a little. "Okay. I … me too. To all of it. Our life sucks sometimes, sometimes it sucks a _lot_, but that's the reason I have you."

Dean manages to snort, roll his eyes, and throw an affectionate arm around Sam's shoulders all at the same time.

"That's all you can come up with, Francis?" he laughs, ruffling Sam's hair.

Sam laughs back as he kind of falls against Dean's side, and smacks Dean's thigh playfully. "I _meant_ it, jerk."

"Oh c'mon. Shit, I practically bare my soul for you, and the best you got is 'me too'?" he mutters incredulously.

Sam smiles inwardly. "Okay, how about this. I love you."

"You better." Dean flicks Sam's elbow in half-hearted retaliation.

"And I wouldn't give up what we have for anything."

Dean just breathes into Sam's hair for a minute before he answers. "Good. Me neither. You know what? We need to call do-over."

Sam moves away from Dean's body again so he can see Dean's face. "Do-over? On what?"

"On everything, man. On our life."

Dean pushes his body toward the edge of the mattress and then stands up, clapping his hands together like he's excited about something. He's got this air about him like when he used to smoke behind the bleachers or make out with a cheerleader in the janitor's closet. It's like that rebellious side of him that loves thumbing his nose at the authorities.

"How exactly are we supposed to do that?" Sam asks, getting up as well and watching Dean warily across the bed.

"No, I don't mean actually _do_ it, just – okay, we need like a reset button," Dean says, that edge to his voice now like when he jets jazzed about a hunt. "You know like on a computer, you hit that button and then it resets back to the default settings?"

"Uh, yeah I guess so."

"We need to do that. Everything that's happened up until today doesn't matter anymore." Dean's eyes are glittering but he's definitely being serious. "No more baggage, no more guilt. Cause what we're doing right now? It isn't working, Sam. All this getting in each other's faces all the time, lying, blaming each other, blaming _ourselves_. We're not gonna stop anything if we keep going like this. And you know what else, we're just playing right into their hands."

"Whose hands?" Sam's brain is starting to feel hazy and sluggish, like there's something he should be _getting_ here but for some reason he's just not quite there.

"You know, heaven, hell. The angels that want me, the demons that want you," Dean clarifies. "If we let them drive a stake between us then they'll win."

Sam nods slowly, understanding creeping up on him. "They'll get us to say yes by tearing us apart."

"Exactly!" Dean cries in his eager, ass-kicker voice. "And you know what? They don't get to win this one! We do."

Sam grins. "Eye of the Tiger, man."

"Shut up, I'm being serious!" Dean laughs. "So, you with me?"

Sam takes a deep breath, considering his brother for a moment. "Reset button."

"Yeah."

"We start over?" Sam asks, searching Dean's face for any sign of doubt, any reason to not trust what Dean's saying. This wouldn't be the first time Dean's said everything was forgiven, and it wouldn't be the first time he didn't really mean it. But Dean's wide, green eyes are set and determined. He actually looks _optimistic_ for the first time in Sam can't remember how long.

"We start over," Dean repeats firmly. "No more of this crap between us. Just you and me, savin' the world."

Sam's heart is racing in his chest because, that? That sounds like exactly what he wants. What he's always wanted, but been too afraid to ask for because he thought he'd screwed up too much to ever truly warrant Dean's forgiveness. He still doesn't think he should be let off the hook for all the mistakes he's made; probably never will. But the look beaming on Dean's face is nothing but sincere.

"Okay," he breathes, smiling like an idiot. "Okay, I'm with you."

"Really?" Dean asks wryly, squinting over at Sam.

"Yeah, really." Sam nods. "Fresh start."

"Hell yeah!" Dean practically whoops. "We kick this thing in the ass our _own_ way. Heaven and Hell and whoever the fuck else better watch their backs cause the fuckin' Winchesters are back in business!"

Sam laughs; Dean's excitement is contagious. "No one messes with a Winchester, right?" he says, quoting what a teenage Dean used to repeat like a mantra.

"Fuckin', right!" Dean cries. "You and me on one side, the rest of the world on the other, like it should be!"

"Like it should be," Sam repeats, keeping his eyes locked on Dean's and hoping they convey the truth behind his words. He's always known it's him and Dean against the world. He's just forgotten it sometimes.

Dean stands there for maybe a minute, eyes wide and intense and breathing heavy, and then he takes a few quick steps forward and launches himself at Sam, grabbing the front of Sam's shirt and pulling him in so hard that it hurts when their lips collide. But Sam doesn't care, he kisses back just as fiercely; ecstatic that he's getting Dean like this again. It's not the first time they've been together since the fiasco with Ruby, but it's the first time Dean's seemed like he actually wants it, like he's not just going through the motions with the base purpose of getting off. His lips are soft but insistent against Sam's and his tongue licks over the seam of Sam's mouth, asking for permission. Begging for it. Sam opens up and lets him in right away, cause oh _god_ Dean can do amazing things with his tongue. Sam moans into it and runs his hands down Dean's back, eager to get at any bit of Dean he can. Dean's hands slip under the hem of Sam's shirt as his lips slide against Sam's, hot and wet, and his warm, rough palms smooth over the skin on Sam's stomach and higher, pushing the thin fabric up as he goes. When he gets it bunched up under Sam's arms, he pulls back breathlessly to tug the t-shirt over Sam's head. Sam's lifts his arms up and lets the material slip off, then drops them back down to pull Dean in close again.

"We really doin' this?" he asks, panting like it's already over even through it's barely begun.

"You want to?" Dean asks, sounding just as winded as Sam; his eyes dark and intense in a different way now.

"Yeah," Sam breathes, leaning in to nip along Dean's stubbled jaw. "_Been_ wantin' to."

"Me too, Sammy." Dean runs his hands down Sam's bare back and Sam shivers. "Missed you so much."

"I was right here," Sam points out, backing Dean towards the bed. "You could'a just asked."

"So could you." Dean's knees hit the mattress and he sits down, grabbing at Sam's waist and pulling him in close enough to dip his tongue into Sam's bellybutton as he speaks.

Sam shrugs and lets his eyes flutter closed; enjoys the feeling to Dean sucking kisses into his abdomen. "I thought you were mad at me."

Dean pulls back on a sigh and looks up into Sam's eyes. "I was, for a while."

"Not anymore?"

Dean shakes his head, truth shining out through his eyes again, and Sam reaches down and palms his cheek. Dean turns his face into it a little, and then he tugs on Sam's arm until Sam is bent over enough to kiss him. Dean kisses him slowly and deeply and Sam tries to give as good as he gets while simultaneously trying to talk his knees out of buckling and sending him crashing to the floor. He figures his best bet is to get himself horizontal as quickly as possible, so he shifts forward and nudges Dean back. Dean gets the message, dropping down to his elbows and inching up the bed while Sam crawls over him, sucking on Dean's bottom lip the whole way and getting delicious little moans from his brother. Dean's always liked pretty much any part of his body being sucked on; obviously one part more than the rest, but he likes it almost as much when it's his lips or fingers or earlobe in Sam's mouth. When they get far enough up the mattress that Dean's head can rest comfortably on the mountain of pillows, Sam pulls back enough to lick a wet stripe up Dean's nose.

"You're wearing too many clothes," Sam pronounces, tugging at the collar on Dean's shirt.

Dean smiles up at him, and pushes his body off the bed enough to pull his shirts off before collapsing back down and tugging Sam with him. He brushes his lips gently against Sam's, barely there, and runs his fingers through Sam's hair. He does that so often that Sam barely even notices it anymore, except for times like this when his skin is buzzing and oversensitive to every touch. It feels amazing to have Dean's fingers gripping at his hair, always has. Safe and loved and protected. Truthfully, it's the reason Sam never cuts it. It's kind of a lot of work, and if he doesn't do it just right it looks really stupid, and more than once he's had the thought that a short, military-issue cut like Dean's would be a lot more practical. But then he wouldn't be able to feel Dean's fingers, tugging and stroking the soft waves, and that feeling is definitely worth it taking him longer to get ready in the morning.

"Be honest," Sam says, around a kiss to the cleft in Dean's chin. "How much do you love my hair?"

Dean huffs in annoyance and shoots a death-glare up at Sam. Sam just laughs. This issue is probably number one on the list of Things They Both Know But Don't Talk About, but Sam figures since they're giving this whole open, honest thing a try, he might as well take the opportunity to ask about Dean's biggest and probably oldest kink.

"C'mon, tell me," Sam prods when Dean doesn't answer.

"Sam," Dean says warningly, eyes hard and telling Sam not to push it, but there's this spot just under Dean's ear that's crazy sensitive and if Sam licks at it just right, Dean will break and tell him anything.

He slides his lips there and smoothes the flat of his tongue over the baby-soft skin. Dean hums happily, his fingers playing idly in the curls at the base of Sam's neck.

"I promise I won't make fun of you," Sam whispers. "I just wanna know."

"I don't … Sammy …" Dean almost whines; pleading, but Sam's not backing down now. Bobby doesn't call him the stubborn one for nothing.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to start telling each other shit," Sam points out; dragging his teeth gently down Dean's earlobe. "I'm just – "

"Fine!" Dean snaps, pushing Sam's head back so their eyes can meet. "A fuckin' lot, okay? It's my favorite bit of you, and yes that's including your mouth and your ass and your friggin' Milton Berle sized junk. I love how it feels between my fingers, I love the way it smells, I love the way it falls into your eyes! I love how ridiculous you look when it's wet! I love it so much I wanna rub off on it and come all over it! There, are you happy now?"

Sam blinks, blown away for a minute, and then smiles. "Yes," he murmurs into Dean's lips. "Very happy."

"Freak," Dean mutters, but pulls Sam in closer and kisses back fiercely.

Sam is more than half hard now; Dean's admission mashing up with the feeling of Dean's tongue and making Sam's head spin in blistering arousal. He lets his knees fall out from under him so his hips rest solidly on top of Dean's and rolls them, echoing Dean's groan as their groins rub together. His brief run as the smooth one, the one in control, is about four seconds away from having run it's course. Dean's the Casanova in the family; Sam's the one who falls for it. Then a shrill, obnoxious ringing sound fills the room, and it takes Sam's turned-the-fuck-on brain a few moments to figure out what it is.

"_Fuck_," Dean groans. "Who the hell would be calling?"

"I …" _c'mon brain, work damn it!_ "It must be the front desk or something," Sam says after another minute, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to blink his vision back into focus. "No one else knows we're here."

Dean groans and swears again, shifting over toward the nightstand as Sam rolls reluctantly off him. Dean reaches for the antique rotary phone and grabs the handset.

"Hello? … Oh, hi, is something wrong? … oh." His face falls a little. "Damn, uh, yeah that card's been giving me trouble lately … okay, I'll just, uh, come down and pay cash then? Yeah. Okay. Be right there."

Dean hangs up the phone with a slight grimace. "Apparently Mastercard has discovered that Richard Wallace doesn't exist."

Sam laughs quietly, but can't help his sigh of disappointment. "And you have to go settle us up _now_?"

"Yeah. Sorry, kiddo. Maybe I shouldn't have answered."

"Nah, it's okay." Sam shrugs it off. "Nice place like this, if you hadn't answered we'd probably have some security dude knocking on our door in thirty seconds."

Dean smiles wickedly. "Guess you're right. I could'a had your dick in my mouth by that point, and we wouldn't want to scare the poor man."

"Or make him insanely jealous that he wasn't invited," Sam quips back.

Dean barks a laugh. "Well, look who finally got himself an ego!"

Sam just smiles, and Dean leans down and pecks a kiss to Sam's lips.

"I'll be right back."

"Kay. I'll be here."

Dean's smile widens and he cuffs Sam on the side of the head. "I'm countin' on it. 'Less, of course, you manage to find someone better in the next five minutes."

"I like your chances."

Dean laughs and winks. "Good to know."

"Hurry," Sam adds, trying to smile seductively but unable to keep a hint of desperation out of his voice. Doesn't really matter, it's not like Dean _doesn't_ know exactly how bad Sam wants it right now, but it's sort of an issue of personal pride – that Dean rocks his whole smooth, sultry, sex-god thing and Sam usually just ends up a babbling, needy mess.

"Don't worry, I'm gonna. You lookin' all messed up and fuckable like that, trust me, I'm gonna be back here as fast as I can to do something about it."

Dean's eyes do a quick sweep along Sam's form and he smiles, _that_ smile, the one that's possessive and predatory and says 'oh, you are so gonna get it', and yeah, that? That right there is exactly why Sam has absolutely no ability to be suave in these situations. It's a good thing Dean seems to like him sloppy and desperate, because after Dean looks at him like that, it's really the only game Sam has.

Dean stands up, looks around for his discarded t-shirt, and then picks it up off the floor and pulls it over his head. He grabs his wallet out of his jacket pocket and a room key and then moves toward the door.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam calls after him before Dean reaches the doorknob. "I couldn't."

Dean turns around and cocks his head to one side. "Couldn't what?"

"Find someone better."

Dean still looks a little confused, so Sam clarifies.

"What you said, before. I know you were kidding around, but, just so you know. I could look as hard as I wanted, but I wouldn't ever find someone better than you."

Dean considers Sam for a moment with a look in his eyes that Sam can't quite place, and then he smiles softy and takes the few steps back to the bed. He cups Sam's cheek in his warm palm, and leans down to kiss Sam gently, sweetly. Almost tenderly, or as close to tender as Dean's capable of, anyway. It's dry but loving and Sam really wishes he could just pull Dean back into bed with him and to hell with the jerk at the front desk. But then Dean pulls back enough to press a long kiss to Sam's forehead; something only Dean does to Sam, never the other way around (and Sam knows that's exactly how Dean wants it).

"Thanks, Sammy," he says, sounding like he really means it; like he'd been silently needing to hear that all along. "Now I'm leaving before you can say anything else so damn romantic and I get nauseous."

This time Sam just smiles and lets Dean go. He's really, really missed this. It's been so long since Dean's been sweet and gentle like this. Since he found out about the demon blood, more than a year ago now, it's just been sex between them – it's lost the deeper meaning it once had. Dean's stopped treating their time under the sheets together as if he's taking care of Sam; now it's just two men taking what their bodies need from each other. And Dean hasn't allowed Sam be the dominate one more than a few times. But that's okay, because Sam knows he really screwed up and Dean needed time before he could trust again.

Sam isn't complaining; he freakin' loves it when Dean takes him rough and fierce, all hands and teeth and bruises in the morning. It was even okay the few times Dean took him a little _too_ forcefully, because he was always gentle again afterward; holding Sam close and falling asleep with his hand still unconsciously petting Sam's hair; giving Sam a glimmer of what it used to be like between them. When fast and hard was a game played occasionally but mostly sex was about getting lost in each other. When Dean would _never_ have started thrusting before Sam was good and ready; rubbing Sam's chest and soothing him through the unavoidable minute of pain and too-much-too-full. It's not the gorgeous, passionate lover that Sam misses, because he still has that. It's his big brother. _That's_ the Dean he's lost.

Sam's reaching to pull his sweatpants off, thinking he's gonna get himself … ready, for Dean, when his cell phone rings; the buzzing small and muffled in his bag. He hastily pushes his sweats back into place, because in all likelihood that's either Bobby or Cas calling and neither of those two is someone Sam wants to talk to while he's naked and still mostly hard. He jogs over to his bag and pulls out the small, black phone, checking the caller ID and flipping it open.

"Hey Bobby."

"How ya doin'?" Bobby's gruff voice answers.

"M'fine," Sam answers, confused. "Is – why?"

"Just wanted to make sure Dean wasn't bein' too hard on ya." Bobby sighs a little. "He was in a real hurry to get you outta' here. I was a bit worried he was gonna drag you off to some motel room and get in your face about … well, everythin'."

"Oh." Sam smiles a little. "Well … thanks. But no, he's … we're okay. Worked some things out. I think everything's gonna be good now. Well, not _good_, but … well, you know."

Bobby laughs quietly. "Lord knows I do."

"And hey, thanks for putting up with Dean yesterday," Sam continues. "I know how he gets."

"Slamming doors and snapping at everybody?" Bobby suggests.

Sam grins wider. "That's the one."

Sam can hear the smile on the older man's face.

"Ah, Dean is just like your old man," Bobby says. "Sometimes anger's the only thing he knows how to feel."

"We're both like that."

Bobby chuckles fondly. "I s'ppose you are. Is Dean there?"

"No, he's … he stepped out for a minute," Sam says quickly. "Want him to call you?"

"No, s'okay. Take care, son."

"Thanks. You too." Sam hangs up and laughs to himself; he's not even really sure what's funny but he's kind of ridiculously happy right now.

Once the ringer is turned off and his phone is tucked safely back into it's designated pocket, Sam continues with his plan of getting naked. He pushes at the elastic waistband on his pants until they fall down his legs, and then he steps out of them and makes his way back to the bed. He props some of the pillows up a little and the collapses down onto the mattress, sinking right in and sighing happily. _Damn_ this bed is comfortable. Sam kind of wishes they never had to leave. He lets his hand trail slowly down his chest, passing over a nipple which makes his breath hitch a little even though it's his own hand. He goes lower, burying his fingers in the small thatch of curls between his lets and tugs at them gently; little pinpricks of pain only heightening his arousal. Then he wraps his fingers around his half-hard cock and strokes; lazily, not anywhere near enough to come but enough to keep himself interested until Dean gets back.

There's a dull thunk from across the room and Sam looks up in surprise to see Dean standing in the doorway. A quick glance at the floor lets Sam know the noise was Dean dropping the heavy, brass key, but then he sees Dean's face. His brother's eyes are wide and glassy, his jaw is slack and he's breathing heavily.

"_Damn_, Sammy," Dean breathes, sort of collapsing back against the closed door a little.

Sam grins. "What?" he asks in a fakely innocent voice.

"Just_ look_ at you, so pretty all spread out for me." Dean blinks a few times and takes a deep, steadying breath. "_God_, you should see yourself."

"Dean, you've seen me naked like eight billion times," Sam reasons, flushing a little at Dean's unwavering gaze even though he knows he brought this on himself by setting up this little show. "Can't be anything that interesting anymore."

Dean laughs shakily. "Not true. Especially if you keep getting bigger."

Sam chuckles back and holds up his hand, gesturing for Dean to join him on the bed. Dean stares for another minute and then sort of kick-starts into action, practically sprinting towards Sam and tearing his clothes off at the same time. But the time his knees hit the mattress he's down to just boxer-briefs. He crawls up Sam's body so fast that Sam's brain has barely caught up before there are soft, insistent lips pressing into his, hot and wet and sloppy and perfect.

"Missed you like this," Sam murmurs up into Dean's mouth, hands running over Dean's shoulders.

"Like what?" Dean asks, grinding down against Sam and drawing a groan out of them both.

"I dunno, loving. Gentle. Like it's about more than just sex again." Sam peppers kisses along Dean's jaw. "Maybe this time I'll be able to sit comfortably for the next week," he jokes, smiling up into Dean's eyes.

Dean pauses and pulls back. He stares at Sam and for a few fuzzy seconds, Sam has no idea what's going on. Until he sees a shadow pass over Dean's face and … oh dear lord no. Sam didn't mean _that_! No no no no no.

"Dean – " Sam begins quickly, but Dean cuts him off.

"I … I've been _hurting_ you?" he asks quietly; horrified.

"No – Dean, that's not – I swear, I didn't – " Sam's so shell-shocked he can't even process thoughts in his own head anywhere near quick enough to stop Dean from heaving his body off the bedroom and stumbling back a few feet.

He looks absolutely terrified and Sam's head is swimming and he can't think of anything to say to take that look of his brother's face. Sam's just as terrified; the thought of Dean potentially taking this away from them now has Sam's heart racing so fast against his ribcage that he can't hear anything else. Because he _needs_ this, needs it like he needs water and oxygen and he can't believe he could be so unbelievably idiotic that he actually just said that.

"I've been … I've been using sex to punish you," Dean whispers, eyes wide and shocked.

"Dean, no!" Sam cries, pushing his own body off the bed and reaching for Dean, cringing when his brother flinches away. "No, I – you haven't. That's not what I meant. I shouldn't have said anything, I take it back."

"You can't take it back," Dean breathes, his whole body trembling as he staggers unsteadily toward the bathroom and locks the door.

Sam's pretty sure his heart just shattered into about a million pieces.


	12. Chapter 11

**So I have changed my mind, _now_ there will be 2 more chapters. This one ran away from me a little so I'm splitting it up. (Also, congrats to kayter for being my 69th review. *giggles*)  
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There are wide eyes staring back at him out of the time-smudged mirror that aren't his. They're the same clear shade of moss green as his, they're the same oval shape, they've got the same too-long eyelashes and dusting of freckles underneath that give him the delicate appearance he's spent his whole life over-compensating for, but they're not his. They can't be. Because his have never, ever looked that terrified. He's hunted every kind of monster and spirit and demon in the book, and a fair few that weren't; he's faced down unspeakable evil and pain; torture and carnage and death; he's lost people he loves, hell, he's lost the one person he loves the most so many times it's an absolute miracle his abandonment issues aren't worse than they are. And they're pretty damn bad, even on the best of days. Even as Sam's kissing him and holding him close and whispering promises of love and forever, there's still a tiny part of Dean's mind that feels like Sam's always got one foot out the door. Like it's only a matter of time before something else comes along, like school or the yellow-eyed demon or Ruby – something new and shiny that will lure Sam away because he's already looking for a reason to leave. Because Dean's never been good enough to keep him.

But even through all of that, he's never been as horrified as he is right now. And those eyes staring back at him? Regardless of everything he's ever lived through, they've never looked so anguished. So hollow, devastated, miserable, desolate, heartbroken, agonized, and about a hundred other emotions that he doesn't even have a word for. And they _are_ his eyes. It _is_ his face staring back at him with that haunted look all over it; his fingers gripping the edge of the bowl sink so tightly his knuckles have turned a sickly white. It's his heart throbbing painfully in his throat, cutting off his air supply and drowning him in black, tar-like hopelessness.

Dean feels sick. Physically sick. He's already thrown up once, there are still trace chunks of it floating in the slowly refilling toilet, but the way his stomach is churning like a windmill in a hurricane it's really only a matter of time before it happens again. His limbs feel like they don't belong to him. There's this thrumming of nervous energy under his skin, like thousands of spiders, and it won't settle. It's uncomfortable and it's too hot and his head is pounding in the back of his skull like a firing squad. All because of a few words. A few little words that might be as insignificant as a light breeze if spoken by someone else or in a different context; but because they weren't they mean everything. Because they weren't, they might as well have been bullets. Worse than. Bullets can be removed; wounds cleaned and stitched and healed over. But this – this won't ever go away. This is like a tattoo; painful at first and then there forever as a constant reminder. This is something Dean is never, ever going to be able to wash off or throw away or carve out. It only happened a few minutes ago but Dean can already tell this is going to be one of those memories, like Hell or like the sight of Sammy lying cold and motionless on that table before Dean made the deal – the kind of memory that'll always just be _there_; never dimming or fading.

And fuck, that's the way it _should_ be. This is something Dean doesn't deserve relief from. He _deserves_ for it to be there every time he closes his eyes. He's done a lot of questionable shit it his life, but this is the worst. The worst by about a million percent. This is worse than the all the people he's ever hurt or used or mistreated. This is worse than the time he let that Werewolf in Tulsa get a jump on him and that little girl died because of it. This is worse than all the people whose lives got ruined because he didn't get there fast enough. This is ever worse than what he did to all those souls in Hell. And he did horrible, unspeakable things to them; all in the cowardly name of saving his own skin. But this is worse. Because this time, he hurt Sam. He hurt _Sammy_. His sweet, caring, precious Sammy. That's the one thing he was never supposed to do. Sam was the one thing Dean was supposed to keep safe. He's supposed to _protect_ Sam, always; from everything. Dean just never realized that 'everything' included himself. How could he have done that? How could he have taken the _one_ thing in their entire, terrible existence that's supposed to be about affection and refuge and _love_, and turn it into something depraved? How could he turn their time together into something Sam should dread instead of look forward to? How he could have taken what's supposed to be their sanctuary and used it against Sam, used it to punish him?

Dean's stomach gives another excruciating twist and he barely makes it the few steps back to the toilet before he's retches again, bile burning his throat as his stomach empties itself into the bowl. He coughs and splutters until he's dry heaving, eyes watering as he tries to spit the awful taste out of his mouth. He's dizzy and disoriented and the small, white room won't stop fuckin' spinning so fast that Dean's not altogether sure he's done being sick even though he's positive there's nothing left in his system to come up. There's a quiet knock at the door that Dean barely hears over the pounding in his head, and then Sam's voice is calling for him.

"M'fine, Sam," Dean manages to choke out as he blinks spots out of his eyes and drags his resisting body back towards the sink to rinse his mouth out.

"You don't sound fine. Did you barf?"

Dean chooses to ignore him for a minute; filling a glass with cool water and swishing it around in his mouth before spitting it into the sink. He really wishes there was a toothbrush in here, or some Scope at least. The water manages to dull the bitter, acidic taste on his tongue, but it doesn't take it away completely. He takes a long drink and a few deep breaths, and then twists the tap back on so he can splash some water on his face. It makes him feel a little better, physically at least, but there's still that powerful, coiling ache in his chest that probably isn't ever going to go away. He hurt Sam. That's all Dean can think, over and over on constant repeat in his head. Sam; beautiful, passionate, amazing Sam, who's so strong but gives himself up to Dean so willingly; trusts Dean; _loves_ Dean. And Dean hurt him in the _one_ part of their lives that's never supposed to be about pain.

"Dean?" Sam's voice comes again, still soft but with an edge of concern now. "Look, I – I'm sorry. I'm an idiot, okay? I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Didn't mean that the way it _sounded_. Which means he still _meant_ it, at least on some level. Dean's head spins and his eyes burn.

"Sam …" he begins weakly, but that's as far as he gets before his throat closes in an attempt to keep from gagging again. Dean shoves his face into the crook of his arm and tries to will his stomach to settle.

"Dean, please. You can't stay in there forever, at some point we're gonna have to talk about this. You beating yourself up isn't gonna do anybody any good. I'm not mad at you, I swear. And I still … god, Dean, just please come out so we can fix this."

Sam's voice is muffled like he's standing right up against the door, and Dean's reminded suddenly of just a few hours ago when their positions were reversed – when Sam was the one locked in the bathroom and Dean was the one begging him to come out; to talk. To _fix_ things.

"Sam, please," he whispers, his voice breaking as he turns away from his own battered reflection in disgust. "You gotta … just give me a few minutes, okay?"

"I swear I didn't mean it," Sam insists, suddenly jiggling the doorknob harshly like he's hoping it'll change its mind about being locked. "C'mon, we can just forget this, like I never said anything, okay?"

"I can't!" Dean explodes, finally snapping and wrenching the door open so hard it smacks violently into the tub and cracks up the middle. "Seriously, Sam, what the hell am I supposed to do now? How can I still be with you, knowing what I did?"

Sam stands there fuming for a few moments, and Dean spares a second to notice that Sam's put his sweatpants back on. Not his shirt, though, and while Sam's impressive chest would usually be something Dean could spend all day staring at, right now while it's paired with the absolutely furious look on Sam's face, his size is nothing short of frightening. Then he pitches forward and crowds into Dean's space; gripping Dean's biceps hard.

"No, no fuckin' way, you do _not_ get to take this away from us!" he cries, shaking Dean a little like he's horrified at the very idea.

Dean snarls and pushes Sam off roughly, then shoves past him into the main room.

"I'm not gonna do this to you, Sam," he says firmly, grabbing his duffle bag and pulling his jacket back on. "I'm not gonna let myself hurt you anymore, and I'm not gonna just sit here and pretend it didn't happen."

"So what, you're gonna leave?" Sam asks incredulously. "All those times you've busted my nuts about walking out on our family, and now you're gonna do the same thing?"

"That's not fair," Dean grumbles, but they both know Sam's right. "How'm I supposed to stay here and just … god, Sam, I've been …" Dean can't even say it out loud. "How could I do that to you?"

"I don't get you sometimes!" Sam steps over and tries to get Dean to look at him, but Dean holds firm. "I don't understand how you can be so fiercely protective of me, how you can go on and on about how it's your job to keep me safe, and then be just as quick to assume that you'd ever knowingly hurt me! It doesn't make any sense!"

"But I _did_ hurt you! You said so!" Dean yells, jerking away from Sam's warm hands and turning away again.

"No you didn't," Sam maintains, softly; gently. Like Dean is something fragile and if Sam speaks too loudly he might break. "I know what I said. But I mean c'mon, do I look like someone who can't take it a little rough? I was never anything but the good kind of sore the next day, I promise."

The tone of Sam's voice says he meant that to be soothing, but it really doesn't make Dean feel any better. He wants to curl up and die – to just melt away into the floor and never have to look at Sam's beautiful, trusting face again. Not now, not after finding out exactly how badly he abused that trust.

"I can't …" he whispers. "Sammy, I just can't. Not anymore."

"Dean, please," Sam whispers back, placing his palm between Dean's shoulder blades.

"No!" Dean barks, pushing Sam off him.

Sam stumbles a few steps backwards with the force of Dean's shove, but then he steadies himself and holds his position.

"You can't do this," he said breathlessly.

"Do what?" Dean spits in annoyance.

"You know _what_," Sam returns angrily. "I saw your eyes change, Dean. I saw you go to that place like when we were teenagers, where you're stuck between wanting _Sam_ and needing to protect _Sammy_."

"Sam, that's not …"

Dean just shakes his head and takes another few steps away. It's completely true, actually; Dean spent the good majority of his late teens and early twenties wanting nothing more than to get his hands and lips and tongue on every bit he could reach of Sam's lithe, teenage body, while at the same time constantly losing sleep over the fact that he was corrupting his sweet baby brother; robbing him of his innocence and childhood. It's ridiculous of course – in truth, Sam lost his childhood the day their mom died. But Dean tried so _hard_ to let Sam keep as much normal as possible, and then Dean had to go and fall for him and ruin it. If Dean had just tried a little bit harder, if he'd just had the willpower to keep his lustful hands off Sam, the poor kid could have a happy life. He could have had the wife and kids and white picket fence. He was on his way there, too, with Jessica. She was so beautiful and the way Sam looked at her – Dean could tell she was everything the kid had ever wanted. And then Dean showed up and wrecked everything, like he always does. If he gets hit with a straight shot of those soft hazel eyes right now he's gonna lose it. Sammy's beautiful, incredible eyes that seem to change color, not with the lighting or the shirt he's wearing, but with his _mood_ – a warm, honeyed teal when he's happy and relaxed; stormy navy when he's angry; the bluest blue imaginable when he's sad; and a bright, fierce green when he's staring down at Dean in lust – such a pure, crystal clear green that sometimes Dean isn't even sure if he's actually seeing Sam's eyes or just his own reflecting back at him. Dean knows that if he looked right now they'd be wide and dark, probably that shimmering, mossy grayish color they get when Sam's really scared. And they see right through Dean. Right to his core. Right to all the things he's afraid for Sam to see.

"Dean …"

"Sammy, I … god, I just …" Dean can hear desperate pleading scratching his voice, but exactly what he's pleading for he isn't even sure. For Sam to forgive him, or for Sam to say he never will. Dean knows which one he deserves, but selfishly he wants the other – he wants this to all go away so they can go back to kissing and touching – so he can have Sam like every inch of his body and heart and _soul_ longs to. He doesn't deserve it. But his fingers itch to touch Sam's bare chest and his whole body aches to be wrapped up in Sam's strong embrace. Being with a girl can't even compare. They're warm and soft and they smell nice, but they're too small and fragile. Sam is the only person Dean's ever been with who made him feel protected. But he doesn't deserve it. He deserves to be thrown out to the wolves.

"God, we can't even have sex without it turning into a fight anymore," Sam mutters. "We're so frigin' dysfunctional."

"Yeah, no shit! We're brothers who fuck!" Dean snaps. "Did you think it was gonna be all cuddling and romantic walks on the beach?"

"Fuck you, you know that's not what I meant."

Dean can feel Sam shoot him a glare through the back of his skull, and he twitches involuntarily and turns around halfway so he can see Sam. "What do you want me to do?" he asks brokenly. "I can barely even be in the same room with you right now, knowing what I did."

"Jesus _fuck_! This is fucking insane! You're acting like you _raped_ me or something!"

"I _practically_ – "

"_No_ you god-damn didn't!" Sam yells, spreading his arms out to the sides in a 'bitch, please!' kind of gesture. "Dean, I'm four inches taller than you and a good 40 pounds heavier, if I'd wanted to throw your skinny ass off me, I could've!"

"Then why didn't you?" Dean explodes. "What, you've got some kind of pain kink now? Have I really fucked you up that badly!"

"No, don't! Don't do that, don't you dare do that!" Sam shouts. "That isn't what this is about and you know it!"

Sam is downright scary when he's this mad, but Dean's about six feet past the end of his rope. The rug's been pulled out from under him or he's jumped off the cliff or whatever the hell the expression is.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Dean shouts back. "Seriously, tell me! Tell me what to do! Tell me how the hell I'm supposed to fix this?"

"You – Dean, I can't okay?" Sam's head falls to the side a little and his eyes go squinty and sad. "I would tell you just to chalk this up to me saying something stupid but I know you wouldn't listen to me. You've got that self sacrificing, big brother look all over your face, like you're about to tell me I can't do something because it's not in my best interests."

"Well maybe it's not! Look at me, Sam! I'm a mess! I've been a mess for _years_!" He's spiraling so quickly out of control Dean's surprised he hasn't thrown up again. Instead it's coming out like word-vomit. His head is pounding and all he can hear is the rough gravel of his own bellowed rambling but he can't stop. "I'm an asshole and I'm annoying and I'm tired and worn down and I _use_ you! I take it out on you when I'm pissed off and I always keep you at arms length because I'm so damn terrified of letting you in 'cause I know if you see what's really inside me, if you see how broken I really am inside you'll start running as fast as you can in the other direction! And that would kill me, do you get that? I would _die_ if you left. That's not me being overdramatic, that is the god's honest truth. And that's not fair! It's not fair to _you_! You deserve to be with someone who isn't fifty different kinds of fucked up!"

Sam looks absolutely livid, but a tear runs down his cheek. "You don't get to decide that for me anymore!" he cries desperately. "And I am not letting you take this away! I need it. I _need_ it, Dean, like I need water and oxygen and you do too! And I love you, you fuckin' idiot! I love you so fuckin' much and you love me back and somewhere along the line that just has to be enough!"

Dean chokes back a sob as the thin twig that is his remaining sanity snaps cleanly in two. "It's enough," he breathes, voice coming out on a pathetic waver but he doesn't even care. "It _is_ enough, of course it's enough. Sammy …"

He launches himself wildly at Sam, their chests connecting hard enough to knock the wind out of Dean but he doesn't care about that either. He wraps his hands around the back of Sam's neck and brings their foreheads together, clinging tightly.

"It's enough," he whispers again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sammy."

"Shh, I know. I know," Sam soothes, rubbing his hands up and down Dean's arms.

"Shit, I …" Dean pulls away and drops heavily to the edge of the mattress, leaning over and burying his face in his hands. "I'm so sorry," he mutters one last time, not even sure if Sam can hear him but for some reason he needs to say it again. He needs Sam to know how much he means it.

Sam doesn't respond, he just takes a deep breath and makes his way slowly over to the bed, swinging one leg up and around Dean's body and straddling him from behind. He cups his big palms over Dean's hips and rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over the skin just under Dean's t-shirt while he waits for Dean to pull himself together. Dean tries, he really does, but he can't stop a few tears from spilling over his eyelids any more than he can stop himself leaning back into Sam's strong chest; soaking up the warmth and taking a small amount of comfort in the feeling of being held; supported. But then Sam slides his arms around his waist and Dean bristles again; tensing and standing up to take a few steps away. Sam shouldn't be the one comforting him right now, it should be the other way around. And besides, Dean doesn't deserve to be held or hugged or soothed after what he did. He deserves to be punched. Not for the first time Dean finds himself wishing that Sam was the kind of person who takes his anger out with his fists like Dean is. If Sam would just get _mad_ like a _normal_ human being, then he could kick Dean's ass a few times and then they'd be even and Dean could start to put this all behind them. But Sam won't. Instead he has to be all understanding and _nice_ about it, and all that does is make Dean feel a million times worse.

"Dean, please," Sam says quietly.

"Tell me what I did." Dean turns back to Sam and fixes him with a firm stare.

Sam falters. "You – what?"

"I need you to tell me," Dean insists. "Everything, okay? I want to know exactly what I did."

Sam's eyebrows stitch together. "C'mon, what good would that do? It's over, can't we just - ?"

"No." Dean shakes his head, standing his ground even though he knows this is going to hurt. "I want you to tell me. Please."

Sam opens his mouth to protest but it dies in his throat, and he sighs and looks down at the ground. "You … okay, a few times, just a _few_, I – it would've been nice if you'd … waited, a little, before you started … moving."

Sam makes a tiny, unnecessary gesture with his hand, but Dean knows what he means. His blood runs absolutely cold.

"Oh god," he mutters, pressing the back of his hand into his mouth.

"No, Dean, I – I'm okay. I was always okay," Sam insists. "You were mad at me. I lied to you, I betrayed you, hell, I started the freakin' apocalypse. I deserved you being mad at me. I always understood that."

"No, don't say that, _please_ don't say that," Dean begs. "Doesn't matter what you did. You never deserved … that."

He wants to hold Sam, pet him and kiss him until everything's better, but he can't even look at his little brother right now. Dean misses the days when he really _could_ make everything better with just a hug. The last few years, he's felt so utterly helpless when it comes to Sam. He's felt like an absolute failure as a big brother. Everything's spinning out of his control so fast he can't keep up, and Dean can't just make things okay again like he could when they were younger. Things aren't that simple anymore.

Sam shrugs. "Like I said, it wasn't that many times. Mostly I just … missed the closeness, you know? We were just … fucking. It lost … well, whatever it used to have that made it _more_."

Dean nods. He missed all that too. He just … he didn't know how to keep things the same between them when everything else was changing. He didn't know how to look at Sam and not see Ruby, and the blood and Hell and _everything_. He didn't know how to turn off his brain and pretend all that stuff didn't happen – pretend there wasn't a world chalk full of angels and demons and monsters all looking to tear Sam away from him; to take his brother away from him for good.

"Tell me you love me."

Sam's voice is soft and airy and it startles Dean. "What?"

"I know you don't like to say it, I know you think it's stupid or girly or whatever, but please." Sam sniffs and looks up at Dean with wet, pleading eyes; shining in a mixture of misery and quiet hopefulness. "I just need to hear it, okay? Just once. Please."

Dean's pretty sure his heart actually stops for a few beats. He inhales so fast the ball of air hurts his lungs. Sam shouldn't have to beg to be told that he's loved. This might actually be the lowest Dean's ever felt in his life.

"I never realized it hurt you so much that I didn't say it," he says breathlessly.

"It doesn't, it's just – I don't know, right now I just need you to tell me."

Dean nods again, numbly this time as he makes his way over to Sam's despondent form in a trance. Everything in his vision is blurred except for Sam; his little brother, his best friend, his _reason_. Every single thing Dean cares about all packed into a powerful 6`4 frame that's never accurately exhibited the kindhearted, _gentle_ person inside; who always selflessly worries about everyone else before he worries about himself; who lets Dean push him away again and again but always comes back. The boy the world has chewed up and spit out more times than either of them can count, but somehow always comes out on the other side stronger. Dean sinks to his knees in front of Sam's legs, bracing his hands on Sam's thighs and staring up at him through watery eyes.

"I love you," he whispers. "I love you so god damn much, baby boy."

Sam looks up slowly but before their eyes can meet, Dean ducks his head down and rests his forehead in the crease of Sam's hip. He couldn't handle seeing Sam's face right now – he knows all he'd find there is love shining back at him but he just can't.

"I love you," he says again, breath moist against the cotton of Sam's pants. Dean's full of way too many emotions to even begin sorting them all out; all he knows is he _hates_ the feeling in his chest right now. He wants it to go away and never, ever come back.

"I love you too," Sam answers, petting Dean's hair gently. "So … how come when you say it, it sounds like a bad thing?"

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he just grips the backs of Sam's thighs tighter and doesn't say anything.

"You say it like … like you think it makes you weak." Sam's fingers stroke along the back of Dean's neck.

Dean shrugs, shoulders bumping against Sam's knees. It's true, really. Loving Sam does make him weaker; vulnerable. It gives the world something to use against him. It clouds his judgment, because it makes Sam's safety and happiness more important than the job Dean's been raised to do. Problem is, Dean was raised to do two jobs; hunt, and take care of Sammy. The two don't always fit together so nicely. And every monster, every demon, every angel, every enemy Dean's ever had knows his one fatal weakness – that he'll always choose Sam.

"It makes us stronger," Sam says softly, like he's reading Dean's mind. "It gives us something to fight for, you know?"

Dean still can't say anything, words getting caught and strangled in his throat, and after a minute Sam inches forward on the bed and then slides smoothly to the floor, pulling Dean into his lap as he does. Dean doesn't have the energy to fight it. He lets himself fall heavily against Sam's sturdy chest, and Sam pulls his feet up to sit flat on the floor so his knees bracket either side of Deans body as he wraps his big, strong arms around Dean's shaking shoulders. Dean feels oddly sheltered; encased like this with Sam completely surrounding him. It's warm and safe and just comforting enough to strip Dean of his last bit of strength. The last brick in his wall is knocked over; his last pane of glass shattered. He lets the warm, wetness fall down his cheeks; not fighting it at all because it's Sam. Dean can feel small and idiotic and lower than dirt, but Sam won't make fun of him. He just holds him close, absorbing the sobs that rack Dean's body and soothing Dean's anguish with soft lips against his forehead. Dean doesn't even know why he's crying anymore; it's _everything_. Everything he's held inside for so long; for _years_; all crashing down around them.

"Is this what you wanted?" he manages to choke out. "Me to be broken down and stripped bare like this?

"Of course not," Sam murmurs. "I'm sorry, I just … I wanted to … I'm sorry."

Dean coughs and splutters a little, reaching out for Sam and wishing his brother was wearing a t-shirt so he'd have something to grab on to. He curls in hands into fists so tight his blunt fingernails dig into his palm.

"I did this to you, didn't I?" Sam asks quietly. "I left too many times, I … I took you for granted too many times. I knew you'd always be there no matter how bad I treated you, I took advantage of that."

Dean shakes his head fervently, because this isn't Sam's fault, _none_ of it is, but Sam's fingers tighten over Dean's arms and he keeps going.

"I made you into this person who thinks loving someone is a bad thing," he whispers sadly.

Dean heaves a few shuddering breaths as he tries to talk, but the words won't come. He's shaking so hard now that he can barely breathe; the air gulped into this lungs going down so roughly it hurts. But there's no pulling himself together, not this time. And honestly, Dean's too exhausted to care. He just cries into Sam's shoulder, throat in agony on every wretched sob and fingers digging into Sam's bare chest. And Sam just holds him tight and lets him fall apart.


	13. Chapter 12

Dean isn't sure, later, exactly how long they sat like that – him in nothing but his underwear, curled up in a feeble little ball on the floor practically freakin' _weeping_, collapsed against his not-so-little brother's chest because he doesn't have the strength to hold himself up. If Dean wasn't in the middle of some kind of epic core-meltdown, he might have appreciated how poetically allegoric it was that every hurt and fear he'd spent years shoving down had all bubbled up at once, breaking him down so completely that Sam was now _literally_ the only thing holding him up. In a way, they'd lived their whole lives like that; fighting with everything they had in them and then leaning on each other like a crutch when they just couldn't fight anymore. It's that whole co-dependence thing that Dean's not always so thrilled about but is buried far too deep in to even bother resisting at this point. He needs Sam, he just does. Like those symbiotic relationships in nature he remembers learning about in Biology – the clownfish can't survive without the anemone and vise versa. It's been that way since before Dean can remember.

And then, were he not in the middle of said epic core-meltdown, he'd probably be annoyed with himself on the grounds that _he's_ supposed to be the big brother; the strong one, and what the hell would Dad say if he could see how _pathetic_ Dean's become lately? But Dean's head is swimming with so many other thoughts it's like he's drowning in it, so he doesn't notice any of those things. He's so tired of fighting and losing, tired of some new catastrophe waiting for him around every corner, tired of always being the one who has to hold everybody else together when the world around them breaks. He's tired of constantly being worried about Sam; even though somewhere in the back of his mind he _knows_ Sam's an adult and can take care of himself, Dean can never suppress the constant nagging feeling that if he takes his eyes off his little brother for more than a few minutes, something bad will happen. It's an instinct that's ingrained into him so deeply he can never get away from it – etched into his bones like the Enochian on his ribs – but it's exhausting, worrying about somebody all the time. It's physically draining, and Dean's long since reached his breaking point. Hell, he's practically pole-vaulted past it.

So he just cries, like he hasn't in probably over a decade. He hasn't _let_ himself, because there's a gruff, disapproving voice in the back of his mind telling him not to. _Real men don't cry_. But fuck it. So fine, if Dean's not a _real man_ by John Winchester's definition then maybe that's just too bad. Dad isn't here; he hasn't had to deal with everything Dean has in the last few years. He never had to sacrifice as much as Dean has. Dad never had to be there for Sam – actually _be there_ for him, instead of just giving up and walking away. Dad never had the entire will of heaven _and_ hell working against him. And Dad only had to lose the love of his life once – Dean's lost Sam so many times he can't even remember them all anymore. So if he needs to be weak and pathetic right now, maybe that's okay. Dean had a pretty good grip on all these nasty emotions until today, but then all the walls came avalanching down faster than he could build them back up again and he's just so god damn _tired_.

So, maybe, it's okay to just be broken for a while. Maybe it's okay to let himself fall apart. After Dean manages to suppress the swell of voices nagging him to pull himself together, it actually feels kinda _good_ to cry – to just let it out in waves of wrenching, over-dramatic despair until his throat is raw and his eyes feel tight and swollen. And Sam doesn't say a word the whole time, because he's the best little brother on the planet. He's the only one who understands that sometimes it isn't that Dean doesn't _want_ to talk, it's that he _can't_. Sam gets that Dean _needs _to bottle everything up until it explodes out in bursts of violence and, apparently, tears. Sam doesn't question him or judge him, he just holds on; gentle fingertips tracing patterns into the skin of Dean's bare back and soothing, nothing-words whispered into the hair just above Dean's ear. Dean can't really make them out with the way his head is throbbing like he's got a giant seashell to each ear, but he keeps catching the word 'okay'. _It's gonna be okay_.

He doesn't ask how, _how is it gonna be okay, Sammy?_, because in all likelihood Sam doesn't have an answer. But somehow, it doesn't seem necessary. Somehow, because it's Sam saying it, Dean can just close his eyes and shut down his brain and believe it's true. That this too shall pass, or whatever the saying is. That one way or another, they _will_ get through this. Like he told Sam earlier this morning – they always do. He meant it then, and even though it sort of feels like about a year's worth of crap has all been dumped on then in the course of this one, terrible day, deep down Dean still believes it. They've made it through everything else and somehow continue to come out stronger on the other side, there's no reason this should be any different.

Dean hiccups a few times as the tears start to slow, drawing in shaky breaths that vibrate through his whole chest on the way out. Sam rubs his back through it, giving Dean another minute to reel his self control back in before he speaks.

"Feeling better?" he asks gently.

Dean snorts wetly. "Oh yeah. I'm walkin' on sunshine," he mutters, rolling his eyes just a little even though Sam can't see it; rubbing his forehead against Sam's neck as he shakes his head incredulously. Sometimes Sam is an idiot. Too bad Dean loves him anyway.

Sam laughs quietly. "You're being a sarcastic asshole again, so you must be back to normal."

"If I'm such an asshole, how come you put up with me?"

"You know why," Sam murmurs, letting his lips drag against Dean's temple.

Dean manages a small smile and wipes at the salty wetness on his face with the back of his hand. "Somebody pays you for it, don't they? I knew it."

Sam laughs again, deep and rumbling in his chest, and it's such a beautiful sound that Dean almost starts crying again. Or, he would, if he was a chick or something. Which he's totally not, regardless of how this estrogen-soaked moment is making him look.

"Something like that. Or, y'know, I might just love you. That could be it."

"Such a _girl_, Sammy," Dean admonishes affectionately.

"I'm not even gonna point out the irony," Sam answers, shaking Dean a little and then tightening his arms around him.

Dean grins, choosing to ignore that comment as he settles against Sam's chest again. The heat from Sam's body seeps through Dean's skin and right down into his bones; warming him from the inside out even though he wasn't cold. Sometimes Dean forgets how big Sam is until he's wrapped around him like this. There'll most likely always be a part of Dean's mind that can't see his brother as anything other then that skinny little kid he used to be. He's a little jaded, maybe, but Dean can still see his sweet little Sammy in those warm, hazel eyes – as hard as the world's tried to beat his compassionate nature out of him. But somewhere along the way Sam became the stronger one of the two of them, physically and probably emotionally too. And somewhere in the course of the last twenty-four hours, Dean became okay with it.

For whatever reason, he's not even ashamed of himself right now for the waterworks and the fact that he's still clinging to Sam like he's afraid to let go. Their whole lives, Sam was _never_ the one telling him it wasn't okay to be emotional - that was always Dad, and then later Dean himself. Dean sort of feels like he should be embarrassed about the way he's acting but for the first time in his life he isn't. He feels like it's _okay_ to let go and sob in Sam's arms just once, because the second Dean gets his head back on straight this will be over. Sam knows him well enough to never bring this up again. So Dean just lets himself wallow a little bit longer in his moment of weakness and manages to mostly be alright with it.

"Are you gonna freak out?" Sam asks, reading his mind.

"'Bout this? Nah." Dean sniffs. "Think m'allowed at least one nervous meltdown in my life."

Sam just nods and doesn't say anything further. He probably _wants_ to – Dean would be willing to bet there are a thousand things swirling around in that big brain of Sam's that he'd _like_ to say, but he doesn't. Again, best little brother ever.

"Hey listen," Dean adds softly, "while we're still channeling Terms Of Endearment here, I – I really am sorry. For everything."

"I know," Sam whispers. "Me too."

"You think we can do it? The whole starting over thing?"

Sam takes his time answering, but when he does his voice is even and determined. "I know we can."

"You sound pretty sure about that." Dean glances up at him and Sam shrugs a little.

"Aren't you?"

"I … sometimes."

"And the other times?" Sam slides one big hand up to drag his thumb on the skin under Dean's eye.

"The other times … it feels like I'm in some kind of tornado or something," Dean answers honestly, lowering his eyes because Sam's piercing gaze tends to take the words right out of his mouth. "Like everything is spinning out of control faster than I can put it back together. And you're the only thing keeping me on the ground."

Sam's brow furrows a little, but he nods thoughtfully. "Guess it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, then. And I know you probably have a hard time believing that right now, considering … well. Everything." He tucks a crooked finger under Dean's chin and lifts his face again. "But that's alright. I'm just gonna have to prove it to you."

Dean takes a deep breath. Sam's right – he doesn't exactly have the best track record, but Dean _wants_ to believe him this time. God help him, he does. "Okay," he agrees, and then Sam swoops down unexpectedly and kisses him, soft and sweet and so damn good it has Dean struggling to catch his breath after only a few swipes of Sam's tongue.

Sam kisses like he does everything else; calculating and controlled at first but then once he finds the right rhythm he throws his whole self into it. He's constantly in motion, hands running up and down Dean bare back; cupping his neck and then squeezing bruises into his hips with stronger fingertips. Dean surrenders to him and lets Sam plunder his mouth, tongue and teeth almost stubbornly relentless, and so very Sam it makes it even harder for Dean to breathe. It's dizzying and kind of shiny-bright and intimidating all at the same time, and after a few minutes Dean's lungs are screaming from a lack of oxygen and he has to grab Sam's face and pull him back – just enough to rest their foreheads together and pant harshly into Sam's mouth.

"Sammy," he whispers, instantly so hard he's lightheaded and Sam hums appreciatively.

"Love the way you say that," he breathes, taking Dean's mouth again but tenderly this time; more loving. He caresses Dean's lips with his own and tucks his thumbs just under the waistband on Dean's boxers to pet at the dewy skin there.

"My ass is going numb," Dean says between kisses, tugging gently at Sam's hair. He really doesn't want to have to move, but the way his legs are scrunched up against his body is probably going to start hurting pretty soon and there's no point in them doing this on the floor when they've got that big, soft bed only a few steps away.

Sam moves back on a breathy laugh. "Me too.

Dean disentangles his limbs from Sam's and stands, reaching down to pull Sam up with him. Immediately Sam crowds back into Dean's space, settling his big hands low on Dean's hips and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the cut of muscle. Dean leans his forehead against Sam's again so he can turn his eyes downward as he slides the sweatpants over Sam's lean hips and down his thighs. Once they drop to the floor, Dean focuses his slightly blurry gaze to Sam's slowly hardening cock; watching raptly as it fills with blood, thickening and lengthening under Dean's intense stare. Sam's face heats up a little under the scrutiny – Dean feels that rather than sees it – but he doesn't look away. He reaches out and brushes his fingers barely-there over the underside, smiling to himself when it twitches and Sam gasps quietly. Watching Sam get hard, knowing it's all for him; that's a sight Dean's pretty sure he's never going to get tired of, ever.

"So fuckin' pretty, Sammy," he says, rubbing ever-so-slightly at the dark pink head with his thumb. "Always knew you'd be impressive."

"What, you mean even when I was a kid?" Sam's voice is a little strangled and his hands are gripping Dean's biceps too tightly to pull off the air of composure he's attempting.

Dean huffs darkly. "Yeah."

"Well that's just six different shades of disturbing," Sam quips, no real weight to his words as he bumps Dean's nose with his own and pushes Dean's underwear off in turn.

"I know." Dean feels just a quick flash of the familiar tightness in his chest – lasting guilt for over ten years worth of impure thoughts about his little brother – but when he looks up there's nothing but warmth and love in Sam's eyes, and the knot around Dean's sternum loosens.

Sam takes both Dean's hands in his and leads him toward the bed, settling himself down on his back and pulling Dean's smaller body on top of his own, kissing Dean soundly before he speaks again.

"Is it weird to think of me like that?" he asks, lips dragging across Dean's cheek.

Dean rolls his hips a little so his straining erection rubs against the jut of Sam's hipbone. Even that little bit of contact sends a prickle of heat up his spine. "Like what?"

"Like the little brother you had to take care of," Sam explains, sliding his hands down to cup Dean's ass and grind their hips together firmly. "Doesn't it make it feel weird to be …"

"To be lying naked in bed with you?" Dean finishes on a half-moan, nipping at Sam's earlobe.

Sam chuckles. "Yeah, that."

Dean stills, pushing up onto his forearms so he can see Sam's face. "I … no, not really. I mean, I guess it should, but it doesn't. It _used_ to, definitely. But now it – just feels like … this is where we're supposed to be, you know?"

Sam nods and his eyebrows crinkle in the middle, twisting into a half-frown. "Do you have any idea how much I fucking love you?" he asks, eyes glazing over a little as he stares up at Dean like he's the only person in the whole world.

It makes Dean feel a million miles tall when Sam looks at him like that. Like he not only hung the moon, but hand crafted it himself along with every single one of the hundred billion stars in the Milky Way and put them there just for Sam – like he'd do it all again in a minute if Sam ever asked him to. Which, colorful metaphors aside, is completely, irreversibly, dangerously _true_. There isn't a damn thing he wouldn't do for Sam.

He leans down and presses a long kiss to Sam's slightly open mouth. "I have some idea," he whispers. Actually, he has an exact idea because he loves Sam just as much, if not more. But he can't say shit like that, even when they're naked and hard and so wrapped up in each other Dean can't remember where he ends and Sam begins, so he lets Sam say it for him and tries to communicate with his lips and hands and sways of his hips how much he feels the same way.

Sam shifts under him so Dean falls more flush on top of him and their erections meet between sweat-sticky stomachs. He gets a better grip on Dean and arches up into him so their cocks rub together. The friction is delicious and the _heat _is so maddening Dean's a hundred percent sure he could come from just this – just Sam's hands on his ass and Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's hips grinding against his own. He doesn't really _want_ to come, not yet anyway since this is supposed to be their epic make-up sex or whatever and it's way too soon for it all to be over but he's having trouble remembering how to voice that. He feels a bit like that stupid puzzle in the newspaper, the jumble or whatever it's called, when Sam gets him like this – he knows what the words are but his brain can't sort them into the right order.

So he reluctantly pushes himself up onto his knees, breaking away from Sam's mouth with an audible smack and immediately ducking down to press a kiss to Sam's collarbone before he can protest the lack of contact.

"Shit," Sam pants, fingers doing their best to tug at Dean's short hair. "Want you so much, big brother."

Dean has to slam his eyes closed and concentrate determinedly on fat, old men playing baseball for a minute because _fuck_ it drives him crazy when Sam calls him that when they're together like this. It's the dirty-bad-wrong of it all, mixed up with how unexplainably _right_ it actually is; and it makes Dean see stars.

"God damn, Sammy," he whispers, reattaching his lips to a spot near Sam's sternum.

"Mmm."

Sam moans like a porn star as Dean licks down his torso; dragging his tongue over a pebbled nipple, and then sealing his lips around it and sucking hard. Sam's everywhere, absolutely everywhere; on Dean's taste buds and in his lungs and in his stomach and in his very soul; and it's perfect. He scatters kisses over Sam's tight stomach, giving every inch of smooth skin a few seconds of attention until Sam's gasping and trembling under Dean's hands. He knows exactly where to suck and sink his teeth in to coax those breathless little moans from deep in Sam's throat that make Dean's dick twitch where it's hanging heavy against his thigh, and he works meticulously like this is just another proviso in his lifelong assignment of _take care of Sammy_. In a weird way, it is.

When Dean gets low enough, he pushes his nose into the curls at the base of Sam's already leaking cock and inhales deeply. He can't even express how deliriously happy he is that the shower didn't work. The musky smell of an aroused Sam is as pungent as always, but it's just that much sharper because it's a day old and unmasked by the artificial smell of soap. He draws one of Sam's balls into his mouth, the thin skin soft against his tongue and the brazen heat on his face so sweltering Dean feels almost feverish with how turned on he is. It's always like this with Sam; no one else effects Dean like his brother does. No one even comes close. The moist air is peppery in his nostrils and he takes another deep breath, all the way down to his toes – head spinning at the scent that's so uniquely Sam that there isn't anything he could compare it to.

Then Sam chuckles quietly, his belly rumbling under Dean's forehead.

"What?" Dean asks, a little defensively, because he's pretty sure he knows exactly 'what'. He's not sure how long he'd had his face buried in Sam's crotch, but it was clearly too long.

"How come I'm just finding out about this kink now?" Sam asks, smiling and scratching his nails through Dean's short hair.

"What kink?" Dean says automatically. He knows it's pointless, he's been caught more than red-handed, but he still feels the need to protect at least a little of whatever dignity he has left.

"This thing you have with smelling me when I'm sweaty and haven't showered. You've been doing it all day."

Dean is completely mortified at hearing it said so bluntly, and he rests his cheek on Sam's hip so his brother won't see the furious blush crawling up his neck.

"I mean, it can't smell good down there," Sam continues, definite hint of a smirk lilting his voice.

Dean shrugs. "I dunno, it does to me. Does that gross you out?"

"What? No, course not." Sam rubs the back of his knuckles against Dean's temple. "It's pretty hot actually, just a little strange that I never knew about it till now, that's all."

Dean sighs and then smiles a little when his warm breath blows unintentionally over Sam's dick and it twitches. Sam tugs at Dean's arm, but Dean stays resolutely put, safely hidden between Sam's legs.

"Dean?" Sam urges.

"I guess I just ..." Dean sighs again and chances a glance up at Sam. He looks genuinely curious, and not like he's about to judge Dean or laugh at him or anything, so Dean keeps going. "I guess I always thought you'd think I was weird or something."

"Why, because you've got a thing for how I smell? You think I don't have weird kinks about you?"

Dean can hear the playful smile on Sam's face, so he crawls up the length of the bed, dropping down onto his back beside his brother. He takes a deep breath and then tosses his head toward Sam so he can look him in the eye. "Like what?"

"Like, sometimes sunlight turns me on, because it reminds me of this spot right here," Sam taps his finger on the fine trail of hair low on Dean's stomach, "all that gold mixed in."

Dean bursts out laughing. "You're right, that is a bit weird."

"Told you," Sam chuckles back, and rolls onto his side so he can lean down and lick at Dean's neck. "So, you like it when I smell bad, huh?"

Dean shifts his head back a little and cards his fingers through Sam's hair. "You don't smell bad, just – when you haven't showered you smell like _you_ instead of soap. Kind of like bread, but a bit spicy or something. You smell fuckin' good, Sammy, always have."

"Mm," Sam hums as he sucks on the pulse point at the base of Dean's neck. "I remember you used to fall asleep with your nose in my hair. I always wondered how you could breathe."

Dean snorts. He definitely remembers that too; lying with his arms wrapped around Sam's chubby little body and his whole face pressed into the side of Sam's head, back before he knew why it was supposed to be wrong.

"Even my ... well."

"Your what?"

"Never mind," Dean mutters, reaching down to brush his fingers over one of Sam's nipples in the hopes of distracting him.

"C'mon, tell me," Sam persists.

Dean lets out a quick puff of breath; he'd be willing to bet he's going directly to Hell for this regardless of what Cas seems to think. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars. But for no reason at all suddenly he's feeling compelled to tell Sam things he never wanted his brother to know before this moment. There's a decent chance that Sam's gonna be disgusted at the true extent of Dean's sick mind, but apparently Sam wasn't the only one who got a wall knocked down today – Dean has voices in his head begging him to shut up but they're not as loud as the voices urging him to finish what he started to say.

"I'm pretty sure my first few hard-ons were because of that," Dean admits reluctantly, turning his face away from Sam's again so at least he doesn't have to meet intense blue-green eyes that can see right through him. "You'd crawl into bed with me after a nightmare or something, and you'd be all warm and sleepy and you'd get this little boy smell all over me. God, it was like you had sprayed perfume or something, the way everything ended up smelling like you. The sheets, my clothes, everything."

When Dean flicks his gaze toward Sam for a second, Sam's eyes have gone all shimmery soft – like he isn't repulsed at all by Dean revealing his pre-teen fetish for his baby brother's scent (emphasis on the 'baby' because at seven or eight that's exactly what Sam was).

"You were pretty irresistible," Dean sighs. "As seriously fucked up as that is."

Sam shakes his head and strands of chocolate brown hair fall into his eyes. "Not fucked up."

"It kinda is."

"Then I guess I'm fucked up too. I used to get wood just watching you fix your car or clean the guns. You'd get all flushed 'cause you were concentrating so hard, fuck you were gorgeous." Sam smiles a little and then leans down and kisses Dean; slow and warm. When he pulls back, he runs the pad of his thumb over Dean's spit-slick bottom lip and adds, "Still are. I don't think it means we're fucked up. I think it means you've been in my head and under my skin since the day I was born."

Dean kisses back, a sudden swell of emotion in his chest stunning him into silence for a few moments. When he does speak again, he can't really help the way his voice wavers and cracks like he's fifteen again.

"So can I get back to sucking your dick now?" he asks, tickling between Sam's shoulder blades.

"You never really started," Sam mumbles against Dean's lips, "too busy perving on my unwashed pubes."

"Oh god, don't put it like that," Dean groans. "Makes me sound like a freak."

Sam grins mischievously. "You are a freak." He reaches out and wraps his fingers around Dean's slightly wilted erection, giving it a squeeze to coax it back to hardness, and whatever retort Dean had dies in his throat. "But it's okay, cause I am too."

"You're such, ah," Dean hisses as Sam digs his thumbnail under the head, "a sweet talker. Can't imagine why you didn't get laid more in high school."

"I got laid plenty in high school." Sam twists his palm around Dean's shaft and sucks at a spot on his jawbone. "Just cause it was with my cradle-robbing big brother doesn't make it not count."

Dean tries to laugh, but it fades into a long moan when Sam bites him gently. "Fu-uck," he mutters shakily. "You keep this up and that thing poking my thigh is gonna have to suck itself."

"Don't want your mouth," Sam rasps, voice low and deep and completely serious again. "Want _you_."

A generous glob of pre-come blurts out of Dean's swollen head at Sam's words, 'cause _fuck_ he wants that too, wants it so bad it hurts. But the things Sam told him earlier float back to the surface and claw their way through the haze of arousal. He doesn't want to hurt Sam ever again, and even though he'd do everything in his power not to this time, the fact still remains that he _did_ – weighted and poignant between them like someone just dropped an anvil on their heads.

"Dean, no." Sam rolls his body in closer so he's pressed flush up against Dean's side from chest to ankles, and lets Dean's cock slip out of his hand so he can cup it around Dean's cheek. "Don't you dare, don't even go there."

"Sammy …"

"_No_," Sam insists, holding Dean's face so he can't look away. "Reset button, remember?"

Dean starts to protest again, but falls silent at the intensity of the look on Sam's face.

"You won't hurt me. You wouldn't, I know that," Sam promises, dropping his head to rest against Dean's. "I need this, _we_ need this, just … please."

There are a million reasons why Dean shouldn't give in to this – he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to get a second chance after what he did. But, inexplicably, Sam's giving him one anyway and Dean isn't even in the neighborhood of strong enough to resist.

"Okay," he murmurs, just a whisper of breath against Sam's lips and that's all the invitation Sam seems to need.

He pushes himself up on top of Dean, kissing him with desperate ferocity and reaching over to the nightstand for the bottle of lube Dean doesn't remember seeing him put there. He's about to ask but Sam isn't even giving him a chance to _breathe_, let alone ask stupid questions, so Dean just cups Sam's face in his hands and kisses back. Sam hikes himself up to his hands and knees, somehow managing to get the cap off the bottle and pour some of the squishy gel onto his fingers while still sucking on Dean's bottom lip until it's swollen and tingling. He lets his tongue swipe over Dean's teeth and the roof of his mouth and Dean hums happily into it. _Damn_, Sam's too good at this. Dean likes sex as much as the next person, probably more, but he would be perfectly content to just do this for the rest of the evening – just trade kisses with Sam over and over again until they can't feel their mouths anymore. But Sam, clearly, has other ideas, and when Dean manages to blink his vision clear enough to glance down their bodies, Sam's arm is draped down his side, hand hovering over his own ass and what has to be at least two fingers buried in his hole.

"Oh holy _fuck_," Dean groans, lifting his head up enough so he can watch as sparks sizzles through his body like an electric currant. That's got to be the hottest thing he's ever seen, _ever_.

Sam moans deeply, dropping his head down on Dean's shoulder and rocking back on his own hand, and Dean might as well give up on ever getting it up for anything other than Sam ever again because _nothing_, not the filthiest porno ever made, could ever be sexier than this is. He splays his hand out on Sam's sweat-dappled back and drags it down slowly until he gets to Sam's ass, squeezing the firm globes of it in his palm and then tracing a whisper-soft fingertip over the rim where Sam's fingers are sheathed in his own body.

"Jesus," Dean mutters, blowing out a quick breath into Sam's hair. The little muscle is slick with lube and twitching around Sam's fingers and Dean's so turned on his vision is whiting out a little around the edges. "So perfect, baby boy. So good for me."

Sam whimpers Dean's name in this voice that's so fucked out it's like liquid sex, and it's nothing short of a miracle that Dean manages to stop himself coming just from the sound alone.

"Spread your fingers a little," Dean whispers, using his free hand to brush the hair off Sam's sweaty forehead so he can lick at the salty moisture.

Sam does, and Dean slips his index finger between the two of Sam's and pushes it fluidly into Sam's quivering hole. Sam whimpers again at the added intrusion, and Dean fights to keep his breathing even through the feeling of them opening Sam up together; the tight vacuum Sam's muscles create around their fingers. It's been a good while since they've done this, but the feeling of being completely buried in Sam isn't one Dean could ever forget regardless of the space between them.

"M'ready," Sam slurs, licking a stripe up Dean's neck and trying to pull his fingers out but Dean stops him.

"One more. Don't wanna –"

"You _won't_," Sam insists, using his leverage to overpower Dean and push his hand away.

"I just … want this to be good for you." Dean blinks up into Sam's eyes; shiny and darkened to a deep, forest green, and Sam smiles warmly and kisses Dean softly.

"You said that the first time," he murmurs into Dean's lips.

"How do you remember things like that?" Dean asks, shaking his head in amusement.

"I remember everything about that night," Sam answers, brushing their noses together and kissing Dean again. "It was good then, and it's gonna be now. It's always a little uncomfortable at first, you know that. But I love you, so it's perfect."

Dean nods, closing his eyes against another electric thrill of arousal combined with something that feels a lot like the kind of love people describe in poems. Conquering and everlasting and all that flowery bullshit Dean's never really had any patience for until right now. In a way he never wants this to end – there's so much crap waiting for them outside the little sanctuary they've made in this room, in this bed, that Dean would love nothing more than to just stay like this forever; naked and sweaty and needy with his Sammy – but on the other hand he's been hard and leaking for so long it's bordering on painful, so if Sam's in a hurry to move things along Dean's not going to fight him.

He puts his hand on Sam's hip, urging him to roll off him so Dean can get on top, but Sam doesn't move.

"Sit up," he says, nudging Dean with his knee.

Dean goes with it, pushing up onto his hands and scooting up to lean against the headboard. Sam pours another generous helping of lube into his palm and coats Dean's erection up with it; stroking the shaft lightly, like an appetizer. Then he knees-walks forward until he's straddling Dean's lap and his chest is right in front of Dean's face. He grins down at Dean, reaching behind himself to take hold of Dean's cock, lines it up, and then lowers himself down onto it. Dean cries out and his hands snap to Sam's hips to hold on, and Sam's eyelids flutter closed and his head falls back as he sinks about halfway down and then pauses.

"God, _Sam_ …" Dean can hardly catch his breath in the crazy heat that's ricocheting back and forth between them, threatening to consume them both and burn them up into nothing but cinders, and Dean's more than inclined to let it. It's too fuckin' good, too tight and _perfect_, to spare a thought for anything else.

"Yeah." Sam's voice is choked sounding, and Dean rubs his stomach and reminds him to breathe, but Sam just smiles coyly and shushes him. "I _have_ done this before."

He drops the rest of the way down in one slow, fluid motion, and if Dean had anything else to say he's forgotten it now because s_hit_, he's pretty sure he's never been in this deep before. It's like gravity combined with the weight of Sam's body are forcing him in just that extra centimeter that Dean could never manage when he was lying over Sam, and holy-fucking-_Christ_ it feels amazing. Dean's hips are trying to move of their own accord but he uses all the will power he possesses to keep still. For maybe fifteen seconds longer, Sam's eyes are squeezed tight and his breathing is shallow as he adjusts to Dean's girth and the new position, and then he just _melts_ into Dean's torso and moans deep in his throat.

"Feels good, Sammy?" Dean whispers huskily, because he has to make sure.

"_God_, you have no idea," Sam mumbles, making a strangled noise when Dean rolls his hips experimentally.

"Tell me."

Dean grips Sam's ass and pulls him forward a bit, echoing Sam's gasp when Dean shifts inside him, hot and wet and so fucking incredible.

"_Fuck_," Sam chokes harshly, gripping Dean's shoulders like he's worried he might collapse if he doesn't. "It's like I can feel you all the way to my brain. There's this super intense pressure where the tip is digging into me, _Jesus _it's so good, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean exhales shakily. "Can I – you ready?"

Sam doesn't bother answering, he just huffs impatiently; lifting himself up a few inches and then slamming back down. He circles his hips a few times until he finds a good rhythm, and Dean grunts and pushes his hips up as much as he can to meet Sam's downward thrusts. Sam rocks up and down, his tight channel rubbing all the right places on Dean's cock and squeezing him so tight Dean sees little black spots behind his eyes. The way his gorgeous body moves above Dean, the indescribable feeling of being sheathed in wet heat, the way Sam's letting out these breathless, needy little moans right in Dean's ear – it's all so overwhelming and dizzying that Dean's toes are curling.

He's not even aware of the fact that he's still gripping Sam's hips like a vice until Sam starts pawing at his hands, muttering, "_God_, Dean, c'mon just … let me … _harder_ …"

Dean growls and complies happily; thrusting up so hard Sam cries out like he's in pain, but Dean can tell he isn't.

"Holy hell, do that again," Sam chokes out.

"Did I hit it?" Dean asks hoarsely, even though he already knows the answer. "Think you can come on just my cock?"

"_Fuck_, yes," Sam groans, falling forward to capture Dean's lips in a brutal kiss. "S'been so long, so fuckin' close, _Dean_ …"

The rough, burnt-sugar of Sam's voice is very nearly enough to throw Dean over the edge, but doesn't want to finish before Sam does. He isn't sure why, his pleasure-saturated brain is way too alight with other sensations right now to figure it out, but for whatever reason it's really _important_ right now that Sam comes first.

"C'mon, baby," Dean whispers, shoving his cock up again and Sam lets out a beautiful broken noise as Dean rubs against his prostate. "Want you to, wanna see it."

Sam comes half a second later with a throaty yell, as if he was waiting for Dean's permission before he let go, and that's all it takes to make the pressure at the base of Dean's spine explode into a fireball that blankets his whole body. The room around him spins and he can vaguely make out the feeling of the hot ropes of Sam's come painting his stomach but mostly Dean can't focus anywhere other than the throbbing of his own dick as he coats Sam's insides with his release. It's too god damn good to even be _real_, and Dean holds on tightly to his brother and lets it wash over him in twitchy waves of oatmeal-thick bliss. Fuck what anybody else says, fuck the angels and the demons and all their stupid whining over that stupid kingdom in the clouds – they can have it. 'Cause this, right here, _this _is what heaven really is. And now that Dean's got it back, he's never letting go again.

For a few long minutes, Dean floats in that post-orgasm haze where he's not really asleep but not really awake either and trying to move his limbs is like trying to tap dance in molasses so he just doesn't move at all. When his heart-rate slows to a slightly more human tempo and his eyes have managed to roll back out of his head, Dean realizes the reason he can't really breathe properly is because Sam is slumped like a dead weight against his chest, blowing puffs of moist air over Dean's neck.

"Did I break you?" Dean mutters, exhaustedly amused.

Sam sighs complacently. "Maybe."

Dean snickers and wraps his arms around Sam's back, pulling his brother in as close as is physically possible.

"Can I sleep here?" Sam mumbles, and his voice sounds so beautifully fucked out that Dean almost gasps.

Then he can't help but smile. "What, with me still in you and everything?"

"Mmhmm."

And that's, well – the idea of Sam waking up tomorrow morning and still being all open for him, shit, that's – "That's kinda sexy," Dean says.

He can feel Sam smiling against his skin.

"Actually, that's really fuckin' sexy," Dean concedes. "But I don't think you'll be able to walk tomorrow if you sleep with your legs bunched up like that."

"That won't be the reason I can't walk tomorrow," Sam jokes, words slurring a little around the edges as he yawns.

"Damn straight," Dean chuckles. "Alright, come on, Jolly Green. You gotta get up."

"Nooo," Sam whines like a little kid, pushing his face into Dean's shoulder. "Don't wanna."

Dean rubs his back affectionately, nuzzling into Sam's hair and letting him rest for another minute or two. It's always like this after Sam comes particularly hard; he gets these fuzzy eyes and his body goes completely lax like he's been roofied. He's never more vulnerable than he is in those moments, and Dean loves it almost more than anything. For a few minutes, Sam is truly helpless. It doesn't last long, but long enough that anyone or anything could swoop down and cut him to ribbon if they were so inclined. It would be as easy as candy from a baby. But Sam just lies there, so sated that he couldn't move if he tried, and trusts that Dean will protect him.

Eventually, Dean's legs start to go numb so he gently rolls Sam off him – Sam goes over so easily Dean's starting to have serious doubts about whether his brother is even still conscious. He gets Sam horizontal and then he settles down beside him, ignoring the thought that maybe he should go get a cloth to clean them up; they've both got come and sweat congealing on their stomachs and Sam's got it dripping between his legs, but Dean decides pretty quickly that he doesn't care. The prospect of not being sticky in the morning is so not worth the energy it would take to get up. And he doesn't really like the idea of being too far away from Sam, even if it's just for a minute. So he pulls the fluffy comforter up over them and settles in beside his brother, worming an arm under Sam's neck so he can roll the floppy body back towards his own. Sam rouses just enough to hum contentedly as he curls himself around Dean, nuzzling into his neck like a cat and sighing sleepily.

"Hey, Dean?" he mumbles, his voice small and little-boyish.

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Dean shakes his head fondly at the way Sam says it – so matter-of-factly, like he's informing Dean of something he didn't already know. As if he hadn't already said it six or seven times today.

"I love you more," Dean answers, tugging Sam in an inch closer and kissing his damp forehead.

Sam smiles blearily and whispers "Not possible," right before he drifts off to sleep.


	14. Chapter 13

**Alright party people, this is it! Thank you all so much for sticking with me for so long, and thank you to every single person who reviewed. I never thought I'd get over 100 reviews for anything, and I'm so humbled by it. You are sunshine on a cloudy day, or something silly like that. *giant hugs***

**Note: I used my omnipotent author powers to sort of rearrange the order of the episodes, you'll know what I mean when you read it. Just go with it, lol. I know it doesn't completely make sense, but that's the fun of fanfiction, right? :P**

* * *

When Sam wakes up, it's slowly and languidly and he's so warm and blissfully comfortable that he doesn't bother opening his eyes right away. Normally he'd at least take a peek at his surroundings through one bleary eye – a quick once-over of the room just to make sure nothing ominous is hovering in a dark corner waiting to strike, which is both a very telling and very sad commentary on the way he's lived his life – but today he doesn't. There's blistering heat soaking through Sam's skin from an inexplicably soothing weight against his chest, and he's not with it enough to know the details but his body knows what his mind hasn't caught up to yet; it's Dean, and that means Sam's safe. So he lets himself relax and floats in that base place between sleeping and not for long enough to completely lose track of time. It's like being weightless, like being wrapped up completely in a soft blanket and painted by sunbeams. It's like a tease of what it would be like to be entirely carefree, and if Sam could actually purr like a cat he would be right now because he's pretty sure he's never been this perfectly content before.

Eventually, the tickle of warm breath on his skin nudges Sam gently toward consciousness, and he blinks a few times slowly before the fog lifts enough that he remembers where he is. The ornately decorated room is even more elegant bathed in rose-colored early morning sunlight, and where yesterday Sam couldn't get over how glaringly obvious it was that people like him and his brother don't belong in a place like this, now, if he squints and focuses on the warmth in his chest and the smell of Dean's skin instead of the twenty-plus years of memories in his head, Sam can almost pretend they _do_ belong here. That this is their bed, in their home, where he gets to wake up every morning wrapped around Dean and nothing's waiting for them outside the door except the impala and freedom.

But then some obnoxious honking from the highway startles Sam awake again, and reality crashes back down around him and he remembers why he should never let himself wish in the first place. It hurts too much when he's forced to realize how much they've given up. And really, when Sam actually thinks about it, he wouldn't want their lives to be that much different anyway. Sometimes Sam hates being a hunter, hates the fear and the weight and constant burden of the world on his shoulders, but then other times he remembers that growing up the way he did is what led him to Dean. If he was normal, some average college kid spending his nights playing beer-pong with his dorm-mates and his days pretending to care about the War Crimes Act of 1996, he wouldn't have Dean's head on his shoulder right now or Dean's naked body pressed against him, and that's worth anything. Sam inhales deeply, letting the scent of sweat and sex and _Dean_ fill his lungs. He's a little punch-drunk off it for a few moments, the way it invades every sense and drowns them until his head is swimming like he's had too much Champagne. Then he rolls Dean over gently, smiling fondly at the way Dean snuffles in his sleep and buries his face into the pillow.

Sam yawns and stretches as he stands up and then shuffles sluggishly toward the bathroom to relieve himself, tossing his head back and forth a few times to get the crimp out of his neck. Morning has always been Sam's favorite time of day. He likes the lingering gooey feeling in his veins leftover from sleep, he likes having a few quiet minutes to himself before Dean wakes up. He likes to rejuvenate slowly in a hot shower without Dean banging on the door; and then he likes to sneak out to the nearest diner or Starbucks because he _loves_ the look on Dean's face when Sam wakes him up with coffee. It's been a while since he's done that, especially since they haven't been sleeping in the same bed lately, and Sam remembers seeing some sort of mom-and-pop restaurant while Dean was checking them in so he decides it'll be a nice way to bookend what was probably the best night he can ever remember having. He unintentionally catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the sink while he's washing his hands, and he looks so _different_ than he did yesterday. His skin's not that sickly grayish color anymore, the lines on his forehead are relaxed, and there's something almost sparkly in his eyes that hasn't been there for a long time – it takes Sam a minute to figure out what it is and when he does it hits him like a ton of bricks.

He looks _happy_. Actually happy, like he hasn't in years. His hair is messy and his ass is a little sore and there's a seriously impressive mark that Dean sucked into his neck, and there are still bruises discoloring his chest from when the withdrawal tossed him around the panic room, and Sam's pretty sure he's never been happier in his life. He can deal with the rest of it – the weight on his shoulders, the cravings for blood he doesn't think will ever completely go away, the total shit-storm their lives have become and the hits that just keep on coming – none of it matters. As long as Sam has Dean, he's good.

* * *

When Sam gets back, Dean hasn't moved an inch from where he's splayed out on the bed; arms wrapped around a pillow in the absence of Sam's body. Sam can't help smiling; Dean is kind of adorable when he's sleeping. He sets the coffee cups and the Styrofoam food container down on the dresser beside the TV, and then he kicks off his shoes as he crosses the room – crawling back onto the bed and lying down beside his brother.

"Dean," he says gently, nudging Dean's forehead with his own. "Wake up."

Dean moans unhappily. "Lemme alone …"

Sam chuckles warmly. Dean rolls a little so he's pressed up against Sam's chest, and he pushes his face into Sam's shoulder and tries to burrow a little further under the blankets.

"I brought breakfast," Sam whispers, nuzzling his nose into Dean's hair and purposefully blowing a breath over Dean's face to keep him close to the surface.

Dean cracks open one eye and glares up at Sam reproachfully. "Better be worth waking me up so damn early."

"Black coffee that looked so thick when they were pouring it I think it might be motor-oil in disguise, and some sort of disgusting looking, heart-attack inducing egg and cheese burrito thing," Sam answers.

This time, Dean's croaky groan is definitely in appreciation.

Sam can't help the idiotic smile he has plastered all over his face. "I also informed the nice lady who made it that if I found a single tomato, I would be back with my forty-five."

"Knew there was a reason I loved you," Dean mumbles, still making no effort to move.

"Just the one?" Sam asks, and he can see Dean's eyes rolling even though his eyelids are still closed.

"Quiet, I'm sleeping." Dean buries his face back into the pillow and pulls Sam in closer.

Sam honestly can't remember the last time Dean was cuddly and affectionate like this, so he gives in; shifting until he's comfortable and wrapping his arms around Dean's body. He debates getting up and undressing, because the feeling of Dean's sleep-warmed skin against Sam's is nothing short of amazing, but he can't seem to convince his limbs to move.

"_Damn_, this bed is comfy," Dean sighs. "I could so live here."

Sam just hums in agreement and scratches his fingernails on the small of Dean's back.

"And you're _warm_," Dean continues, his words slurred a little from sleep as snuggles in as close as he possibly can and presses his forehead into Sam's neck. "God, you're like an electric blanket."

"An electric blanket that walks and talks and has sex with you."

Sam can feel Dean smiling against his skin. "Mm, that's the best kind."

"You're a little bit ridiculous, you know that?" Sam laughs quietly.

"Mhm." Dean kisses the skin by Sam's collar bone and then rubs it with his nose. "So, how 'bout it? You wanna live here?"

"You mean in Nebraska or in this bed?"

"I mean in this bed."

"Nothin' but sex and naps for the rest of our lives?" Sam quips, leaning down a little to kiss Dean's shoulder.

"Sounds good, right?" Dean tongues at the sensitive skin over the pulse-point on Sam's neck, and Sam sighs happily.

"Sounds pretty perfect."

"Guess there's that whole apocalypse mess we gotta deal with first, huh? Just the end of the world, not a big deal or anything." Dean's voice is muffled against Sam's chest, but there's an annoyed edge to it like a little kid pouting. It should be cute, but it's kind of sad, and Sam hugs him tighter.

"Yeah," he agrees regretfully. "Listen, while we're on the subject, I … there's something I meant to ask you yesterday but I forgot, with all the – other stuff."

"The mind blowing sex, you mean?" Dean asks, leaning back and grinning up at Sam cheekily.

Sam snorts. "Yeah. That."

"Okay, shoot. Or, wait, do I need coffee first?"

Sam laughs again, but then actually considers it. "Probably," he decides, pushing off the bed to retrieve the liquid caffeine he'd brought back with him.

Dean sits up, tugging the sheet with him to mostly hide his nakedness, and eyes Sam warily. "You're not gonna, like, ask me to marry you or something, right?"

"Wasn't planning on it." Sam hands Dean the paper cup and smiles when Dean brings it up to his lips and his eyes flutter closed like it's the best thing he's ever smelled. Sam takes advantage of Dean's momentary distraction to slip his plaid shirt off so he's down to just a worn t-shirt, and digs around in his bag for a minute until his fingers find the small lump rolled up in a sock he'd shoved down to the bottom.

Dean looks considerably more alert when Sam turns around, and he's blinking owlishly at Sam between sips. "What's with the sock?"

"It's …" Sam stalls. He wants this, at the moment he wants it more than anything, but he doesn't want to ruin everything they rebuilt last night. He still feels like they're pretty fragile, like one wrong move could make everything topple over again and Sam's not sure either of them would make it through another day like yesterday. But even though his heart is thundering nervously in his throat, he can't bring himself to voice the 'never mind' that's on the tip of his tongue. Things need to be _right _again, like Dean said, and they're not. Not quite yet.

He moves over to the bed again and sits beside Dean's outstretched legs so he can face his suspicious looking brother. Dean's staring at him from under a furrowed brow like he thinks he's about to get punched, and for some reason that makes Sam relax a little. Enough to unroll the sock and let the small, gold amulet fall into his hand and hold it up so Dean can see it. Dean's face sort of rises and falls at the same time – a funny combination of emotions playing across it while Sam watches with bated breath.

"Oh," he says after a long moment, staring intently at the pendant in Sam's hand like he's halfway expecting it to explode at any second.

"Yeah." Sam chews at the inside of his cheek, unsure of what to say exactly. He's unsettled by the fact that he can't really read the expression on Dean's face.

"You … I didn't know you picked it up," Dean says quietly.

"I had to," Sam answers honestly. "I couldn't just … I know you were mad at me. And that's okay, but – I don't know. I couldn't leave it there."

Dean presses his lips together. "So … you want me to …"

Sam sighs, that uncomfortable tightness squeezing in his chest again. He should've known this was a bad idea. "I'm sorry, it's – you're not ready. It's okay. I shouldn't've … well. Never mind." He gets up and turns away from Dean to hide the swell of disappointment that's pinching behind his eyes. Logically, he knows this isn't exactly a rejection; they still had sex last night and said they loved each other and woke up together; but it still _feels_ like one. Like, even after everything they said last night, Dean still doesn't completely forgive Sam for everything he's done.

"Wait."

Sam's halfway back to the desk when Dean unexpectedly starts talking – softly and maybe a little sadly, and Sam turns back around in surprise. Dean's drawn his knees up close to his chest, coffee cup discarded on the nightstand, but he fixes his eyes on Sam's and doesn't look away.

"It used to mean so much to me because you gave it to me. When you were off at school … I didn't take it off once, the whole time you were away. Was like, as long as I kept it on I still had a little piece of you that no one could take away from me."

Sam's sharp inhale gets caught on a lump in the back of his throat.

"But then we kept getting shuffled into all those memories of yours, memories that were happy to you because you were alone, because I wasn't there." Dean laughs humorlessly and looks away. "The night you left for Stanford, I can't even … seriously, Sam, that's like in my top five list of the worst moments of my whole life and to find out it was a _happy_ memory for you …"

Dean's whole face has clouded over and he looks so damn sad – so lost and dejected and so very _small_ that it's all Sam can do not to go to him. He doesn't; what he _should_ be doing instead is explaining himself, insisting that he loves Dean and promising that he was _never_ happy to have to leave him; but he can't do that either. He's just frozen solid, so stunned that Dean's actually talking about this that he can't even blink.

Dean sniffs and rubs one eye roughly. "And then after all that, hearing Cas call the thing _useless_ was just … it was too much, y'know?"

Sam nods numbly. He waits, just for a minute, until Dean tosses his head toward the empty side of the bed as an invitation for Sam to join him.

"Did … did you ever consider that maybe Zachariah was doing that on purpose?" Sam asks slowly, carefully, after he's settled back down beside his brother. "Sticking us in places he knew would piss you off?"

Dean narrows his eyes but doesn't say anything, so Sam takes a deep breath and continues.

"I mean, think about it. Out of all the hundreds, _thousands_, of memories I have, we just happened to end up in the night I left for school, and the time I ran away, and somebody else's happy Thanksgiving? Don't you think maybe the angels were just screwing with us again, trying to drive us further apart? To make you want to say yes to Michael?"

For a long time, Dean just considers him with a strangely blank expression on his face. His eyes are still a little squinted, like he's actually thinking it over, which Sam supposes is at least a small victory. And least Dean's not outright disagreeing and deciding Sam doesn't deserve to be forgiven after all.

"No," he says finally, "I didn't. I never … thought about it like that."

The vice around Sam's heart loosens just a bit, just enough to make it easier to breathe again. "I've always liked being independent, that's just how I am. You know that," he maintains gently. "So yeah, I've had some good times without you, but Dean, I swear, the only reason I was happy in those memories was 'cause I was getting away from Dad, from _hunting_. Not from you."

"I … yeah. Okay." Dean bites his lip thoughtfully.

Sam shifts an inch or two closer and breathes a tiny sigh of relief when Dean doesn't stop him. "Before I left for Stanford, back when I got my acceptance letter? I thought about – for _months_ I toyed with the idea of asking you to go with me," he admits. He's never said it out loud before, always assumed Dean would laugh at him or scoff at how ridiculous the idea was.

"You did?"

Sam nods and squeezes Dean's thigh. "Of course I did. You piss me off sometimes but you're my brother, that's how it's supposed to be. I would have asked you to come with me in a heartbeat if I thought there was even a one in a million chance that you'd say yes."

"You should've," Dean replies quietly, almost sullenly.

"I'm happy I didn't," Sam counters, continuing quickly to quell Dean's angry protest. "It would've been asking you to choose between me and Dad. And that wouldn't have been fair."

Dean sighs and shrugs. "I guess so."

"Besides, I … I think I needed to be on my own for a while, to figure out where I really belong. It's here, it's with you. I didn't know that back then, but I do now. It's right here." Sam goes for broke, closing the distance between them and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. He smiles to himself when Dean immediately wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and pulls him in the rest of the way.

"Sap," Dean mutters, actions betraying the annoyance in his voice as he kisses the top of Sam's head.

"Deal with it." Sam grins wider lets Dean take all his weight. "Most of my happy memories _do_ have you in them. All those times we watched cartoons together on Saturday mornings while Dad was off doing god knows what. That time Mike Edberg gave me a fat lip in the hallway and before I could even get up to defend myself, you swooped in out of nowhere and threatened to kick his ass if he ever touched me again."

Dean chuckles. "I actually remember that. That kid was a douchebag."

"He was like twice my size and you damn near made him cry," Sam laughs, letting the scent and warmth from Dean's body fill him up.

"Alright, fine, gimme the damn thing," Dean huffs, grabbing the black cord out of Sam's hand and pulling it over his head; the metal talisman falling back into place over his sternum like it never left. Sam schools his features back into the most ambiguous expression he can manage, because Dean doesn't like to make a big deal out of things like this, but inside Sam does a little happy dance. _Now_ everything feels right again.

"I am an awesome big brother," Dean declares dramatically, and Sam hums in agreement.

"You are. M'lucky to have you."

"Hell yeah. I should get that in writing so I can kick your ass if you ever forget it."

"Like you've ever needed an excuse to kick my ass," Sam scoffs, squirming when Dean pokes him in the ticklish spot under his ribcage. "Okay, okay, I give!"

"Asshole," Dean mumbles under his breath. "Kiss me, bitch."

Sam does, leaning up and brushing his lips against Dean's for a minute before he pushes forward so he can suck on Dean's tongue. Dean kisses back languidly, curling his fingers in Sam's hair.

"You need to shave," Sam murmurs into Dean's mouth, the rough stubble tickling his chin.

"You need to brush your teeth," Dean returns, nipping at Sam's bottom lip before pulling back and smushing Sam's face back into his neck. Sam just rolls his eyes and snuggles closer. "Remember Wichita?"

Sam grins. "Yes. Dad only left us for the weekend but we had sex like seventeen times."

"Pretty sure that would kill me, now," Dean laughs, and Sam laughs back.

"You are gettin' kinda old," Sam quips.

"Yeah, yeah. That and you're a lot better at it now." Dean flicks Sam's elbow playfully and Sam bats his hand away.

"Gimme a break, I was only sixteen."

"God, sixteen." Dean groans. "Man, that's messed up."

"You were practically a child molester," Sam agrees, cheeks twitching as he nods solemnly.

"Hey, I used to really worry about that!" Dean protests. "You know, that I was …"

"Corrupting me?" Sam supplies, his lips turned up in a smile. "Pretty sure I wouldn't have taken no for an answer."

Dean huffs a reluctant laugh. "_That_ is definitely true. It was just so much more work to actually go out and get sex, when I had someone so fuckin' willing for it right there."

"So what, I was basically just a glorified blow-up doll?" Sam cries, only sort of indignant at the accusation.

"Pretty much," Dean jokes, ruffling Sam's hair.

"You're so romantic."

Dean chuckles deeply and tightens his arms around Sam. The slightly awkward angle combined with the extra pressure from Dean's hug makes a particularly sore spot on Sam's battered chest press against his own arm, and he hisses involuntarily – nerves flaring in pain for just a second.

"Shit, sorry," Dean mumbles, pushing Sam back a little. "Still sore?"

"A little. S'okay though," Sam promises.

"Lie down," Dean urges, nudging Sam onto his back and then standing up and reaching for his duffle bag. He grabs a small jar from one of the pockets and slips a pair of boxers on, and then he's back a few seconds later, pushing Sam's shirt up to his armpits and clicking his tongue sympathetically.

"I'm fine," Sam says again, but Dean silences him with a look.

"Shut up," he advises with a smirk and one raised eyebrow. He twists the top off the glass jar, scoops up a glob of the thick, grayish cream with his finger. Sam eyes it warily, but Dean just shrugs a shoulder as he starts slowly massaging it into Sam's tender skin. "Bobby gave it to me. It's supposed to help with bruises. And wipe that stupid look off your face, god, you'd think I just whipped out a ring or something."

Sam can't help the jovial laugh that bubbles up out of him. Dean may be rolling his eyes and ridiculing Sam like he always does, but the message underneath is loud and clear. He doesn't need to say it and Sam doesn't really need to hear it – the 'I love you' is so obvious it's almost deafening. Sam would never mention it, cause they don't say shit like that, but Dean is really sweet sometimes, when he wants to be.

"Thanks," is all Sam does allow himself to say. He's pretty sure Dean gets it anyway.

"Just taking care of you, like always."

"Never stop, okay?"

Dean's mouth curves into a real smile, eyes crinkling around the edges and glittering like they do when he's genuinely happy. "Wouldn't even if you wanted me to."


End file.
